Saturday, September 19th 2009

Saturday, September 19^th 2009

 

            What a bizarre day!  Soon after I woke up Emily asked Maggie and I if we wanted to go swimming at Johann’s house.  His family has a beautiful stucco house on the side of a mountain in the rich section of town.  The view was incredible – it overlooked the undulating hills and valleys of Kampala.  On the hills cellular towers soared into the skies like needy fingers.  Buziga loomed quietly in the distance (30 minutes away). Jerry, Angelica, Emily, Maggie, Johann and I sat on the porch drinking wine and coffee.

            It was very enjoyable. We laughed all afternoon and played with Johann’s two dogs.  At around 5:00 Angelica got a text message from Baati inviting all of us to come see a play at her father’s theatre.  Her father is a prominent lawyer and respected community leader who decided to try his hand at producing plays.  Baati said we could all get in for free.  We were all concerned because we were dressed for a pool party and wouldn’t have time to go home and change before going to the theatre (oh yeah, this was the opening night).  Out of everyone’s poolside wardrobe mine was the worst.  Not only was a wearing a cut off t shirt (very American, not worn here) but I was wearing shorts which is something only boys wear…and only during recreation.  If a Ugandan man were to wear shorts people would laugh at him.  (Apparently its okay for me to occasionally wear them because the people will just think I’m a “weird mzungu”.)

            So we pull up to this extravagant theatre and the street is CLOSED off, there is a RED CARPET laid at the entrance and there are ARMED GUARDS WITH HUGE GUNS standing all over the place.  Immediately I went into panic mode – I was going to a marquee event and I was wearing casual and silly clothes.  I thought the people would be offended that a mzungu would show up at such a highly regarded event dressed improperly.  To avoid confrontation Baati walked us in the back door.  I felt like a buffoon.  I walked with my head down and followed the group.  I didn’t want to see the other people in suits giving the short-wearing-mzungu dirty looks. 

            We sat down and ordered beers and beef pies (basically hot pockets filled with beef).  The play was called, “The Trials and Tribulations of Love” and it was performed by “The Ebonies” (who are Uganda’s premier acting crew).  Before the play began they showed the Ebonies touring the US (Las Vegas, Hollywood, New York City, Dubai).  Now I know why so many people in Uganda think American’s are rich and famous.  They showed clips of Disney World, Rodeo Drive, Universal Studio’s, parades, Las Vegas Strip, Times Square…it appears they are quite obsessed with American culture / music / sights.  They also dedicated several songs / skits to Michael Jackson.  It made me realize just how much Michael Jackson touched the world (pun intended).  But really – he meant so much to so many people.  I know he is not without flaws…but it made me sad he died.  He was a tortured soul trapped in adolescence by the media and the fans.

            The play wasn’t particularly well done and lasted FOUR HOURS.  At the 3 hour mark I leaned over to Maggie and said, “I think we died on the way here and we’re in hell.”  The play was basically a series of skits where the man cheated on the woman and was forgiven for his infidelity…not exactly a positive message for the community…and very sexist in my humble opinion.

            Afterwards we went to an after party at Iguana…but it wasn’t that great so we left early.  We got “I feel like chicken tonight” on the way home for dinner.

Friday, September 18th, 2009

Friday, September 18^th, 2009 (Updated)

           

            “It often happens that I wake up at night and I begin to think about a serious problem and I decide I must tell the pope about it.  Then I wake up completely and realize I am the pope.”

            - Pope John XXll (Written on wall in Kampala slum)

 

            Yet another whirlwind day.  I woke up to the sounds of Emily cooking Angelica breakfast for her birthday – bacon (which is rare here) and eggs in an omelet and a shot of baileys (nice touch).  Then Angelica asked me to come to a one of her teacher training seminars – I agreed.  It was pouring rain out so we asked Emily to drive us down Ggabe road, but there was a lot of traffic, so we GULP jumped on the back of a boda boda and drove there in the rain!  Umm, yeah, it was terrifying – back of a motorcycle in the rain.  I need to buy a helmet pronto.

            We got to the seminar and Angelica taught for an hour.  She also asked me to introduce myself to the group – I gave a quick background and discussed my skills in the business world.  It wasn’t too bad. 

            Then we went to a slum on the side of Ggaba road.  It was absolutely destitute.  We walked through and I just kept my sunglasses on and walked straight ahead – I have a theory that people can see fear in your eyes and I didn’t want anyone to see mine at that moment.  People would shout “Mzungu!” when I walked past.  White people are a VERY rare sight there.   (Angelica is black so I was the only white person in the group).

            The slums were as bad as any I’ve ever seen on TV or in the movies.  But almost more than the sights are the smells.  I walked through the labyrinth of huts and the odor was so bitter and acidic it made my saliva taste like battery acid.  I slipped and slid on the dirt – which was a combination of garbage, ruddy colored mud and (what looked like) hair.

            We were in the slum on Ggaba Road to hand out books that schoolchildren in Harlem had authored and drawn for the kids.  When we finally got to the school (after getting lost several times) we were ushered into a small, windowless room where we met Mushu – one of the most incredible people I’ve ever met.  He explained to us that he was a construction worker who realized that the children of the slum were in a vicious cycle whereby the lack of education all but guaranteed they’d never escape poverty.   Before he founded his school none of the children in the slums were getting any education.  We couldn’t speak for very long because the children were very excited by our arrival (and the gifts we bore) so Moshu cut the meeting short and we went into the “classroom.”  The classroom had dirt floors, panes of plywood as a blackboard, corrugated metal as a roof and no walls.  When all the children were in the classroom Angelica asked Moshu why the classroom was half empty if he was overloaded with students.  Moshu explained that when it rained (it was raining that day) the rain falling on the metal roof was too loud to teach.  Thus, often times when it rained many of the children didn’t come to class. 

            The kids were unbelievably poor, but cute at the same time.  When they walked in and saw a mzungo they ran over, shook my head and bowed deeply.  I felt bad they were bowing so I started bowing back!  Angelica brought me to take pictures of the kids when they received the books.  After I took their picture I’d show them the digital version on the back of my camera and they went WILD!  They were really sweet kids, but it was heartbreaking to see.

            Afterwards Angelica and I took a boda boda into town and went to a forex spot where they exchanged my US dollars for Ugandan Shillings.  I got ripped off with the $20 bills (bad exchange rate).  Oh well.

            Then Angelica had to leave so I needed to navigate around the city and get home myself!  Gulp.  Before I left I had to go to a cell phone store and got THE WORST cell phone ever…it’s a Nokia piece of crap, but it only cost me about $35 so I guess you get what you pay for.  Then I tried to go food shopping but the security guard wouldn’t let me in with my bag and there was NO WAY I was leaving my bag, my money AND my camera in an outdoor area.  So I said no thanks and walked away.

            To get a matutu home I had to first find “Cooper Station” where the cabs to Buziga leave (I live in Buziga).  After asking a half a dozen people and having a very kind woman walk me almost to the door step – I found Cooper Station.  I got into the back of a matatu and waited…you just sit there until the van is full.  In this case I had to wait about 20 minutes.  As you sit there people try to sell you things…”Mr. Mzungo – do you want icecream?!”

            When I got home I took a long, cold shower (I hadn’t showered in two days and I was covered in a red dirt) and relaxed.  Another crazy day.

            That night was Angelica’s birthday.  It’s a place near the Lugogo bypass.  I had checked out the club the night before with Angelica and DJ Apeman.s

            It was a really incredible night – one of the better nights in recent memory.  That’s the interesting thing about Kampala – there is a huge dichotomy between the “have’s” and the “have nots.”  In the morning I walked around in a shantytown filled with the poorest people on this planet…and at night I went to a nightclub that was comparable to any of the clubs / bars in NYC.  Weird.  As Angelica told me while we were touring the slums that morning, “I am a person of extremes.  Today we walk in shantytowns and give books to children.  Tonight we’ll party at Oasis!”

            Anyways, the night started out with me and Maggie having the figure out a way to get to Oasis, which was 30 minutes from our compound.  Another first!  Getting on a boda boda at night!  We found a boda driver down the street, but he didn’t know where the Lugogo bypass was so he gave his bike to another driver who charged us 8,000 shillings ($4.00).  When we got on Ggaba road we pulled right behind a HUGE bus that was spitting out exhaust particles big enough to see.  I don’t know how the driver was able to see anything but I literally had to hide my face behind Maggie’s so I didn’t go blind.  Lets just say driving through Kampala at night is a very interesting experience.  The more I live here the more I realize that boda boda’s are a way of life.  With traffic it’s honestly the only way to get around.

            After 30 minutes or so the boda driver dropped us off at the Lugogo bypass and Maggie and I finally found Oasis.  Oasis is a Indian restaurant with a hall that can be rented out.  Angelica rented it out for her and her friend Baati (it was Baati’s birthday as well).  The cost to rent this MASSIVE hall with wood floors and a sound system and disco lights and the whole nine yards was 300,000 shillings ($150). 

            I was sitting on a couch talking to Maggie when Moshu (the teacher at the school in the slum that I visited earlier in the day) popped up from out of nowhere.  I was glad he did because we made small talk and, my God, what an impressive person.  He told me - “Everyone thinks that it’s the responsibility of the government to take care of children.  But the government is made up of people.  So if you think the government should do something really what you’re saying is the people should do something.  But I realized nobody is doing anything, and I am one of the people, so I had to do something.”  Wow.  This guy started this school from nothing.  When it started he had 20 people.  Now he has 120 people.

            “You know the boy that read you the book from Harlem today?”  He was referencing the books that the children in Harlem had put together for the Ugandan students.  One of the kids in his class read the entire book aloud to the rest of the children.  He continued, “When I found him in the slums he was 9.  He couldn’t read.  He couldn’t write.  Today – two years later he can read that book to the entire class.”

            He also told me that during the initial fundraising for the school residents of the slums came out and made donations.  One lady saved up so she could buy a pencil to donate to Moshu’s school.  That should put things in perspective for you.

            I felt bad because Moshu’s kids had made bracelets that Moshu had tried to sell to me earlier in the day (I didn’t have any shillings on me at the time).  I kept offering to buy him a drink because he didn’t have one (I didn’t know if he could afford one) but I thought he felt bad asking for a drink.  Finally he capitulated and told me I could buy him a water.  As I was going to buy him a drink I realized why he had declined my many offers to buy him a drink – he is Muslim and they don’t drink!  I’m a complete idiot.

            Met a lot of interesting people at the party:

- Johann – Who is white but has lived in Uganda with his family for the last 3 years.  His father is a banana geneticist (or something like that) and the family has lived ALL over the world from South America to Nepal to India to Thailand to Uganda.  Very interesting.  Johann is leaving Kampala in 2 weeks to move to Gulu in northern Uganda.  He’s a USAID worker studying the different tribes of northern Uganda.

- Sara – Social worker from the US

- Sue – Lawyer from Australia doing “Lawyers without borders” or something like that.  She helps poor families and widows retain ownership of property after the father / husband dies.

- Jerry – Local Ugandan that Emily met a week earlier.

- The Rapper – A famous Ugandan wrapper who sounds exactly like Noreaga (they played his music in the club).

            After Oasis the rapper drove us to Iguana – another mzungu hangout.  It was a good time and we all danced.  Afterwards we went to “I feel like chicken tonight” where I ate my first Ugandan fast food!  Chicken and biscuits yum.

Thursday – September 17th, 2009

            Well!  Today was a day of MANY firsts for me – many of which I was really dreading and I’m happy I got them out of the way.  I woke up late again today (jetlag + mouse = bad sleeping environment).  Maggie, another volunteer, made me a cheese and avocado sandwich for breakfast.  She got the avocado from some street vendors right outside our compound.  For some reason I figured I’d probably spend the entire day reading about microfinance and taking it easy since yesterday was such a crazy day.  I was VERY wrong.

            One of the mentors was going up to the school she teaches at every week.  The school is called Gayaza Cambridge and its one of the poorer partner schools associated with Educate.  Anyways, the urged me to go so I said okay.  We walked out of our compound and I got onto my first boda boda – it was the driver, Angelica and finally me on this tiny little thing.  Here is a picture of a boda boda:

            Anyways, I’ve never even been on a motorcycle and here I am riding behind two other people on this rickety old thing.  But…the thing with boda boda…as with most things in life – you have to be smart and you have to use your discretion.  There are certain places where its super dangerous to ride a boda boda and I of course avoid those.  The first boda trip was from our compound to the main road where we got a matatu (van) – it cost 500 shillings (25 cents). 

            We got on the matatu and basically they just shove as many people in these things as possible.  I sat with 4 other people in my row alone…the thing is really packed BUT they don’t go fast so its not that scary.  They kind of creep along…the matatu costs 700 shillings (35 cents) for the 20 minute trip to Kampala.

            I have NEVER seen anything like old taxi square.  Its where you go to get taxi’s to EVERYWHERE in the country.  Its literally a lot full of these matatu’s and they’re all moving at the same time.  To find a suitable van you just need to ask around and people show you which matatu to get on.

            We drove into absolutely DESTITUTE neighberhoods.  There are no words, pictures or videos to describe what I saw today.  Literally shanty towns and people that have nothing…children begging.  Donkeys, cows, longhorn cattle, goats, chickens all over the place…running around like nuts.  I could write a book about the villages we passed.  I didn’t have my camera, and I will try and take pictures at some point – but right now im not comfortable whipping out a camera.  After almost an hour in this cramped matatu we came to Gayaza.

            We left the paved roads about a half hour into the trip – gayaza only had dirt roads with huge potholes in them.  We walked over to the boda boda drivers and Angelica asked one of them if they knew where Gayaza Cambridge was.  The man sheepishly nodded and quoted us a price of 500 shillings.  She asked him again – louder.  He nodded again and patted the seat for us to get on it.  She shook her head and walked away and asked another one – he seemed to adamantly know where the place was and quoted us 1,500 shillings.  I asked Angelica how she knew the first guy was full if s*it and she said it was because he quoted too low of a price.  Apparently boda boda drivers quote you something cheap, then once you get on the bike they drive away and once they’re away from the other boda boda drivers they ask you where to go….if you don’t know they charge you extra for getting lost and you are at their whim.  Pretty crazy.

            Anyways, we get on the back of this boda boda and fly around on these dirt backroads that are wide enough for one car.  Over speed bumps.  Around fallen branches.  Past animals.  People stared at me like I had two heads and several yelled “MZUNGU!” at me as I drove past.

            We arrived at Gayaza Cambridge and sat in on the class.  It was quite a spectacle that a mzungo was there…we listened to the teacher talk and then I introduced myself to the class.  Apparently I spoke too fast and didn’t open my mouth enough (?) so the teacher had to translate my words into Kiswahili so the students could understand it. 

            There was a quiet boy in class named “Tribe.”  He was a muslim who didn’t say anything throughout the class.  After class was out all the children wanted to shake “joe’s” hand.  I spoke with them and talked to them.  When they all left Tribe came up to me and said, “What is your vision?”

            “What do you mean what’s my vision?”

            “For us?”

            “It was a deep question.  “Well, what do you want to be?”

            “An entrepreneur and an economist.”  He said.

            “I’ve studied both.”

            “Can you teach me?”

            I nodded. 

            “Do you promise you’ll come back?”

            I nodded again.

            “When?”

            “In a week or two.”  I promised.

            He smiled and walked away.

            There were two boda boda drivers waiting for us when we got back (we paid the one that took us there 1,000 shillings to come back at 6:20.  He never did…)

            We got into town and into a matatu.  The people called me Mr. Mzungu.  Everyone was friendly enough except for a teenager on the side of the bus.  He kept yelling “mzungu! mzungu” and rapping on the glass.  When we pulled away he hit the glass again and gave me the finger.  Oh well – there’s always a bad apple in every crowd.

            We got into Kampala and Angelica told me she wanted to meet up with her Ugandan friend, “DJ APEMAN.”  He was formerly from the UK and had been living in Uganda for the last couple of months.  Angelica and DJ Apeman took me to 2K restaurant bakuli on Hoima Road for my first real Ugandan meal (this is where the locals eat).  I had beef and crushed peanuts in a huge leaf, rice and meat, matoke and na’an.  It was really delicious actually…

            Then DJ Apeman drove us home.  We passed a chocolate truck which had flipped on its side.

            Phew.

Wednesday - September 16, 2009

            Since I didn’t sleep well last night I got a late start to the day.  I woke up around noon and Emily and Angelica told me they were going to Taibah – one of the partner schools in Uganda.  Emily drove (thank God, I’m terrified of the boda boda’s) and we passed cows in the street, long horn cattle, goats, chickens and shanty towns just like you see on TV.  The air absolutely reeks of burning garbage (that’s how they dispose of it over here) and exhaust from the cars, buses and motorcycles.  By the way – you will find people carrying ALL KINDS of things on the back of these little motorcycles.  It’s really incredible…I saw someone carrying a tractor tire.

            We got to Taibah and they were having a science fair.  The students showed us all of their exhibits: wooden mouse pads, live locusts (HUGE!!!), waste purification systems, how to treat malaria by boiling eucalyptus, how to tenderize meat by letting it sit in a pot with water and potatoes, warm egg sandwiches (no thanks).  One of the projects caught on fire and we had to open a window.  The students were all so kind and nice and happy to see us. 

            After the school we went to a “Rotary Club” meeting where people basically go to brainstorm, exchange ideas, look for partners/funding.  One of the main rotaries is on the board of Educate! so its important we go to meetings there every once in a while.   The person presenting today had a very interesting concept…about a water treatment method that you only needed the sun and a clear plastic bottle to implement it.  Basically UV rays from the sun kill the membrane of bacteria’s and viruses and (according to these people) once you leave a clear bottle in the sun for 24 hours its completely okay to drink.  Yeah, it sounds nice, but I’m skeptical.  They had a scientist from Canada fly out for the trip (he was the only other white person I saw until this point).

            If you want to learn more abou it: http://www.thewaterschool.org/

            Afterwards we went to what I was told is another mzungu hang out and one of the most expensive places in the entire city.  HA!  The meal with several appetizers, an entre and a drink cost me $12!  The food was really exceptional too – very delicious.  We ate with about 12 mzungu’s (sorry, I’ve adapted that term) who were all doing very interesting work in Africa.  One thing about the expatriates here…they’re mostly VERY intelligent.  At a table of 12 I feel like 1/3 went to Ivy League Schools.  The dude I was speaking with all night, Hiigh (I think?  Not sure how to spell it?) was a graduate from Harvard Business School doing work in Uganda.  Anyways, just interesting group of people.  All very nice.

            Afterwards we went to “Bubble Lounge” which is another mzungu hangout.  It’s a full Irish bar that was brought WHOLE from Ireland.  We watched European Soccer (“football”) and I was told I needed to pick a British team immediately – so, ladies and gentlemen, I am officially a fan of the English premier league “Arsenal!” 

http://www.arsenal.com/home

            Now I have to get a jersey…  My timing was quite fortuitous…as soon as I declared my loyalty they scored a goal!  Everyone got a kick out of that.  So yeah, I have a new team.

            One funny feature of the bar is that it had about a million tap handles…but when you ordered a beer they handed you a can.  Apparently the beer handles are for show – ha.  There were maybe 8 white people in the entire place, but I’m already getting more comfortable with that.

            I’m tired, but a couple other random observations:

- To get hot water for your shower, you have to turn a switch which heats the water.  You need to do this 15 minutes before you shower.  The shower water smells like boiled eggs.

- There is no light in the bathroom.  I was told I just needed to learn to “aim very straight.”

- People drive like complete psychopaths here.  It is not for the faint of heart.

- There is very little violent crime here…and its not why you might think.  Essentially every citizen is a vigilante.  If you are caught stealing from someone or violently affecting them – you will be beat to death by a street mob.  True story.  Glad I don’t steal!

Wednesday - September 15^th, 2009

            I have to admit, I was very nervous about my flight to Entebbe.  I had visions of being the only white person on the plane…everyone looking at me…etcetera.  It was really no different than the plane from NYC to Amsterdam.  A 50/50 mix of people.  Most of the white people on the plane were (yuck) missionaries.  They stuck me as very self-righteous and arrogant almost.  They used terms like “spiritual poverty alleviation” and “delivering religious humanitarian aid”…yuck.  I wanted to remind them that the wars between the Anglophile Protestants, Francophile Catholics and Muslims have ravaged Africa since the 19^th century, but I bit my tongue.  They all wore matching shirts…the women all wore long cotton skirts…the kind of group that probably subsists off of nothing more than granola.  They travelled in large groups and seemed to be in a spiritual pissing match with each other – lol.  I hope I don’t look like one of them.

            The other takeaway from the train is how absolutely BEAUTIFUL the children are.  The ones on the plane were coming back from some sort of competition in the states (I actually think they were on my plane coming from NYC) but they all had shaved heads and the nicest skin I’ve ever seen – really striking.  The only way I could tell the boys from the girls is that the girls had earrings…

            My plane flew over Germany, Austria, the entire length of Italy, the Mediterranean Sea, Libya and Sudan.  The Sahara desert was mind numbingly VAST and PLAIN.  The flat, gentle plain meshed against the bright blue of the sky creating an odd visual effect whereby it was impossible to tell where the desert stopped and the sky started.  It blended together in a massive collage.  There were a bunch of large crop-circlish-looking-things in the desert…not sure what they were.

            Flying over Sudan was weird.  It’s possible that the worst humanitarian chrisis’ in the past couple of years have occurred there.  But I never saw anything other then desert…a couple faded roads…a few rock ledges…everything is burnt tan.  We flew directly over Darfur and it was offsetting to think that if the plane had mechanical problems and we had to land – we’d land in a place VERY hostile towards the US.  Sounds dumb to think about – but I think that’s the first time I’ve ever flown over a “hostile” country.

            I was oddly calm the entire trip – but two hours before I was to land in Kampala I became ridiculously nervous.  Maybe because the sun was about to set…maybe because the reality that I’d be landing in Africa was about to set in…whatever it was I found myself nervous to the point of being nauseous.  As the sun fell the landscape below began to change from a burned-tan to varied with dark green splotches and mountains and (oddly) strips of insanely bright red dirt or rock.  For the first time there were feathers of clouds in the air…It had been a ridiculously clear day until we started our descent.

            NOW THE INTERESTING STUFF!

            We landed and I rushed right through customs…they didn’t even bother to check my bag.  I’m not sure why.  There were a ton of people waiting to get their stuff checked and they ushered me straight through.

            Emily and Angelica were there waiting for me.  That was my biggest fear by the way – getting to the airport by myself and having nobody waiting for me.  I said a few prayers that they’d be there waiting for me…and…they were!  After I got in the car I was a little freaked out because they both had commented multiple times about how wild it is driving on Entebbe Road at night (it’s the ONLY road connecting Kampala and Entebbe Airport).  So I was on zero sleep for over 24 hours (I cant sleep on planes) and I was unnerved because the woman in the drivers seat had her leg up and was texting the entire ride.  Finally, I commented to her “you must be really good at multi-tasking.”  Both girls looked at me like I had 2 heads.  She was like, “why do you say that?”  I thought it was quite obvious why I was saying that…foot on the dashboard, driving, texting.  So I repeated myself.  She was like, “I don’t understand – I’m just texting my friend.”  I was like, “Yeah, and driving.”  They both looked at me again like I had two heads…finally I realized why.  The driver sits on the right side here…they drive on the left side of the road.  The girl I was talking to was sitting in the passenger seat and my sleep-deprived self didn’t notice she didn’t have a steering wheel.  Hmph!

            They took me to a mzungu Italian place and I had a cheese calzone that was pretty decent.  A cheese calzone, coke, bottle of water and package of gum was 16,000 sherlings ($8.00).  Everything here is so ridiculously cheap.

            Afterwards we came back to the “compound.”  It’s a walled in compound with guards, BUT (don’t worry Mom) the guards are mainly a way to show the Ugandans that we are happy to employ members of the community, as opposed to fighting off armed bandits.  I met “Frenchie” who’s a (guess) French dude who’s working here for another week.  Also met Maggie who’s a girl from Colorado (and also my roommate, poor girl).  The compound is, umm, quite different than anything I’ve stayed in before (I’ll get to that).

            I hung out on the internet for a bit…wrote some emails until midnight and then tried to go to sleep.  I hadn’t laid down more than 5 minutes when I heard a scuffling on the floor.  Then I heard something tearing into some “crinkly” wrapping when I realized there was a mouse in my bag.  Yes, people, apparently there is a pet mouse in the compound named “Ruthie” or something like that.  Anyways, good ol’ Ruthie terrorized me throughout the night.  Eventually I learned to ignore the sound of her scuffling on the floor beneath me.   Just when I was starting to get used to the mouse and sleeping under a mosquito net – I heard a racket of dog barking.  Yes – there are packs of wild dogs in Uganda (think Saint Martins Kerin & Danielle) and what I heard was very disturbing.  It sounded like they might have been feasting on one of their own…  :o(  Apparently the “dog choir” is a nighly occurrence and something I need to get used to.

NYU Oppy Submission - September 15th

NYU Oppy Submission - September 15th

Joseph Quaderer is a student in the Langone program.  On September 14^th he began a 6-month sabbatical in Kampala, Uganda where he’ll be working for Educate! a non-profit organization that teaches native Ugandans and refugees from the Democratic Republic of Congo, Rwanda, Burundi and Sudan the necessary skills to start and scale social enterprises - financially sustainable organizations that also address important social problems.  While abroad he’ll be writing a bi-weekly column for the Oppy.

 

            “All passengers with seats between rows 35 and 45 can now board the aircraft.”

 

            I was at JFK and a young, sharply dressed KLM representative was chirping into the microphone.  I was with the rest of the passengers on flight KL642, standing in front of the boarding gate, boorishly waiting until my row was called.

            I looked at my airline ticket.  Row 31.  Seat A.  It would be my seat on the first leg of my journey to Uganda.  First an 8 hour flight to Amsterdam, then a 4 hour lay over and then a 9 hour flight to Entebbe, Uganda’s main airport.

            As I stood there, I reflected on what a whirlwind the last two weeks had been.  I walked away from a stable job on Wall Street to volunteer in Africa. I always wondered what it would be like to leave corporate America, to physically walk outside the building on my last day.  How would I act?  Would I laugh?  Would I cry?  Would I emit a Howard Dean’ish “byah!” that would terrify anyone within a three-mile radius?  On August 28^th, exactly five years and two months after joining Morgan Stanley, I found out.

            Truth be told my departure wasn’t that spectacular – more of a fizzle than a fireball.  While I was excited to embark on my new adventure in the nonprofit world, Morgan Stanley was the only place I’d ever worked.  The experiences I’d had, opportunities I’d been afforded and, most importantly, the friends I’d made during my time at Morgan left me feeling nostalgic and sentimental.  More than being terrified of not having a check for the next 6-12 months, I was scared to leave the only world I’d known since undergraduate school.  Within three weeks I was going from one of the most venerated financial institutions on Wall Street to a nonprofit start-up in Uganda.

           

            “All passengers between rows 25 and 45 can now board the aircraft.”

 

            I looked at my ticket – it was my time to get on the plane, but I wasn’t ready.  I stepped outside the line I’d been standing in for 20 minutes and walked over to the large bay windows overlooking the tarmac.  JFK was hectic as usual, with planes hustling in and out of the nooks and crannies of the airport like giant worker bees.  I looked at my plane – a big, sky blue KLM Boeing 777 Dreamliner parked right outside the window.

 

            My sister called. 

            “Did you have any luck calling the US Embassy?”  She asked.

            “Nope – it kept telling me the number I dialed isn’t valid.”

            “I see.”

            I could hear the worry and frustration in her voice.  My family, concerned with the prospect of me being in Africa without any method of communication chipped in and surprised me with a global satellite phone the day before my departure.  It is quite an intimidating piece of equipment (think of the phone Leonardo DiCaprio used in Blood Diamond).  It’s the size of a brick and the antenna alone, which flips up in either direction at 45 degree angles (so its pointing towards the sky depending on which side of your face you hold the phone) is an inch thick and extends out 12 inches.  However, despite the technology and the impressive-looking phone, for some reason during my test calls it wouldn’t allow me to call anyone in Uganda.  I’d tried both the Educate! office and the US Embassy – neither worked.

            “Okay, well I just spoke with the guy at the phone company.”  She continued.  “He said that if you’re trying to dial a number outside the US you need to dial 00 first.”

            That little tidbit of information was not included with the instruction manual.

            “Got it.”

            “Try dialing the US Embassy in Kampala now to make sure it works.”           

            “I cant.”

            “Why not?”

            “The satellite phone needs to be outside for it to work.  When you’re inside the reception to the satellite’s orbiting the earth is too weak.”  I could sense tension building up on the other side of the phone.  “But its okay.  I’m sure there will be payphones in Entebbe airport if the satellite phone doesn’t work.”

            “Right.”  She said, “But that’s why we bought you this phone.  So you wouldn’t have to worry about finding a payphone in the airport.”

            “I know.”  I admitted.  “I’m sure it’ll work just fine.”

            “I hope so.”

            “Me too.”

            We said goodbye for the millionth time and I turned off my cell phone to save the battery life.

            While walking away from a stable job and a comfortable life in Manhattan was difficult – the most difficult thing about travelling to Uganda was leaving behind my friends and family.  I have been blessed with an abundance of fantastic friends and a wonderful family, including a beautiful sixteen-month-old nephew and another nephew (I’m going to be his godfather!) on the way.  I hadn’t even left JFK yet, but already I missed everyone.  It seemed like I’d been surrounded by friends, family and coworkers every waking moment for the last two weeks – whether it was getting dinner and drinks with friends or playing with my nephew – my last two weeks in the US were wonderful, and they made it even harder to leave everyone for 6 months.

 

            “All passengers between rows 10 and 45 can now board the aircraft.”

 

            I wasn’t ready to board yet.  There was till time to soak in the hustle and bustle of JFK airport, the wonderful Brooklyn accents, the food that didn’t look particularly appetizing, but at least it was comfortable.

 

            There was a newsstand bordering my gate.  I walked in and flipped through the New York Times.  It brought me back to the shocking headline I’d read a few days prior, “Unrest in Uganda’s Capital, Kampala ,Centers on Local King.”  A headline like this isn’t a big deal normally; it seems like a story one might come across after fingering through any media publication for five seconds.  The type of story you don’t even give a second thought.  The over-proliferation of the media has made us numb to headlines like that.  But, when one is travelling to the said destination, these fleeting headlines and interesting stories take on a whole different gravitas.

            I actually hadn’t come across the story myself.  I was on my way to Roosevelt Field Mall when, suddenly, my cell phone started ringing like crazy.  My mother (eager to spend every last second with me) was in the car.  I asked her to grab my cell phone.  The texts, from multiple people, sickened both of us: “Did you hear about the riots in Kampala?” ; “Dude, you still going to Kampala?” ; “Yo – check out NYT article on Uganda.”

            As soon as we got to the mall I checked out a couple of news sources and was alarmed by what I read:  “Bands of young men burned tires, looted shops and battled with the police, and by sundown armored military trucks were rumbling through the litter-strewn streets of Kampala” ; “20 people expected dead in violent street riots.”  The pictures were equally disturbing – burned out buses and cars, burning tires, people running around with machine guns.  They are images that have been burned into our collective psyche throughout the years.

            When I got home from the mall I went to the State Department’s website to get an official prognostication on the events.  They didn’t make me feel any better.  After years of stability, and three days before I was supposed to fly into Kampala the State Department issued a “Travel Warning:”

            “The Department of State alerts U.S. citizens to the violent demonstrations stemming from political friction between the central government and the authorities of Buganda, which is a vestige of a pre-modern kingdom located in central Uganda, inclusive of Kampala. 

            “As a result of these demonstrations, travel within the downtown central business district of Kampala and surrounding areas is severely restricted, and U.S. citizens should be aware that spontaneous demonstrations can occur without notice.  This potential for violent demonstrations will remain throughout the weekend of September 12-13, and may extend into the following week.

            “The Kampala-Entebbe road that connects the Entebbe International Airport and Kampala was closed several times on September 10, and some roads leading north from Kampala were sporadically closed.  These sporadic closures are expected to continue to occur through the weekend, and perhaps beyond.  This means travel to and from the airport may be severely restricted and may cause lengthy delays.  U.S. citizens planning to travel out of Entebbe International Airport should be sure to give themselves at least four (4) hours to get to the airport from Kampala.

            “U.S. citizens should be aware that even peaceful gatherings and demonstrations can turn unexpectedly violent.  U.S. citizens in Uganda should remain aware of their surroundings, monitor and assess their own security situations at all times, and avoid large public gatherings, protests, and demonstrations.  U.S. citizens are encouraged to report unusual events or activities to the U.S. Embassy. 

 

            I would be landing in Uganda, at night, without a reliable means of communication and the only road between Entebbe Airport and downtown Kampala (where my compound is located) was sporadically being shut down.  Things were shaping up quite nicely for my excursion.

           

            “All passengers on KLM flight 642 are welcome to board the aircraft.”  The voice chirped again.

 

            Everyone bustled to the KLM representative scanning tickets, but I still wasn’t ready. Although I was eager to experience a new culture and way of life, I still wanted to savor each and every moment I had in the US.  The night before, after everyone in my family had left my “bon voyage” party, I walked around Floral Park, the town I was born and raised.  It was late at night on a Sunday and most people in the town were in bed.  The town was sleepy and hazy and quiet.  I walked down Bellmore Street and looked at Our Lady of Victory School and I remembered being a student there from Kindergarten to the 8^th grade.  I walked past the schoolyard and looked at the wall where I’d practiced throwing lacrosse balls and tennis balls and playing handball and with my friends.  I walked down Tulip Avenue and looked at, Jamison’s, my favorite Irish bar that was within stumbling distance of my house.  I looked at the Tulip Bake Shop that made the best jelly donuts in the world.  I looked at the train station, busy as usual, with trains hustling in and out of Manhattan.  I looked at my barbershop where I’d gotten countless haircuts through the years.  I knew I’d have none of these comforts, even though they are petty and small, in Uganda.  I knew it would be hard to leave these small sources of happiness for a few months, but I also knew I’d appreciate them infinitely more upon my return to the US.

 

            “Last call.  All passengers on KLM flight 642 with non-stop service to Amsterdam please board the aircraft.”

      Finally I walked over to the ticket scanner.

            The cheerful woman looked at me.  “What took you so long hun?”

            I smiled, handed her my ticket and walked onto the plane.

 

            Joseph Quaderer can be reached at Joseph.Quaderer@gmail.com

NYU Oppy Submission - September 8th

Joseph Quaderer is a student in the Langone program. On September 14th he’s going on a 6 month sabbatical to Kampala, Uganda to work for Educate! a non-profit organization that teaches native Ugandans and refugees from the Democratic Republic of Congo, Rwanda, Burundi and Sudan the necessary skills to start and scale social enterprises - financially sustainable organizations that also address important social problems. While abroad he’ll be writing a bi-weekly column for the Oppy.

   “There’s someone outside.”  One of the girls said.

            My friends and I were out at our summerhouse – a time-share in the East Hamptons that we’ve shared for the last three years.  Everyone was playing beer pong, or listening to music or watching the Yankees game when the mysterious man appeared outside.  He stood against the long vertical window on the side of the door peering into the house.  He didn’t knock.  He didn’t ring the bell.  Nobody knew how long he had been standing there. 

            My friend Andy walked to the door. The man stepped back onto the porch.  He was wearing a short, rounded hat and a thick cotton robe that stretched to his knees.

            “Can I help you?”  Andy asked the man.

            “You called a cab?”

            “We called Rafiqe.”

            Rafiqe was the cab driver we’d befriended during our first summer in the Hamptons.  He had the cheapest rates in the Hamptons - but he was also a kind man that knew each of us by name and would pick us up whenever we needed it.

            “Rafiqe sent me today.  His van is too big to make this trip.”  He peered into the house.  “He said you only have nine people.”

            “Yeah.”  Andy said.  “Slow weekend.”

            The man nodded.

            Andy looked at his watch.  “Its only 10:50. I told Rafiqe 11:30.”

            “That’s fine.” the man smiled warmly.  “I have no problem waiting – I just wanted you to know I’m here.”

            Andy thanked the man and shut the door.  “Cab is here people!”  He yelled.  Everyone began slugging down the remainder of his or her drink.  The club was a half hour away and the drink prices were through the roof.  As one of my friends says, “you don’t want to be feeling any pain when you get into the cab.”

            We were going to a club named Dune.  It was founded by Noah Tepperburg, the owner of some of the biggest night spots in the world - Marque, Avenue, Avo..etcetera.  At any given time at Dune you could run into any number of celebrities from Lindsay Lohan to Fabulous to Scary Spice.   Depending on your viewpoint Dune was one of the coolest places on earth or one of the lamest and most pretentious.  I’ll leave that discernment to you.

            After everyone had walked out of the house Andy asked me to shut off all the lights.  My reward for this feat was sitting “shot gun” in the van – which meant I had to lodge between the driver’s seat and the passenger seat (which was occupied by a 6’4’’ 240 pound man).  The van was so overloaded that the muffler scraped the driveway as we backed away from the house.

            I looked at the driver.  “Is it okay if the muffler is dragging?”

            “Its fine.  It happens occasionally.”

            We drove down Montauk Highway, made a left on Old Riverhead Road and finally onto the Sunrise Parkway headed east.  By that time the sound of the muffler grating against the pavement had been erased by the chatter of everyone in the van, the Lady Gaga blasting from the stereo and the ocean breeze blowing through the open windows.

            Being as I was basically sitting on the cab drivers lap I decided to make small talk.

            “Hows business been?”

            “Very slow this summer.  Very slow.”  He admitted.  “Last year at this time every single house was full of people looking to go to the bars.  This year every other house is empty.”

            I shook my head.

            “This is my first trip today!”  He exclaimed.  “What a long day.  I fasted all day and now I’ll work all night.”

            I looked at him puzzled.

            “Ramadan.”  He said.  “Do you know what that is?”

            “I know it’s the Islamic month of fasting.”  I said.  “That’s about it.”

            “Ahh.”  He replied.  “At least you know that.”

            I nodded.

            He continued, “It’s the ninth month of the Islamic calendar – a month of fasting and refraining from eating, drinking, smoking and anything else that’s ill-natured.  It’s supposed to teach the Muslim’s patience, modesty and spirituality.”

            I nodded again.

            “A time to repent of sins.”  He said, looking at me (and away from the road) for all too long.

            I sat in silence, reflecting on what the man said and listening to the sounds of the people in the back of the cab.

            “What do you think of the Muslim Religion?”

            I was taken aback.  It was an uncomfortably direct query.  Most people don’t speak like that. They beat around the bush and ask tangential things.  There was no mincing of words here.  It was offsetting, yet refreshing.

            “I think it’s beautiful.”  I said.  “I think all religions are beautiful – Judaism, Catholicism, Hinduism, Islam and so on – it turns ugly only when people use religion as a tool to carry out other agendas.”  I thought some more.  “Religion, in my opinion, is mans interpretation of divine law.  There is no ‘right’ or ‘wrong’ religion – they’re just different mediums humans use to achieve the penultimate goal – unity with God.”

            Perhaps I wasn’t quite as eloquent in the cab, nonetheless my point got across.

            “My name is Dawud.”  The cab driver stuck his hand out.  “What is your name?”

            I shook his hand.  “I’m Joe.”

            Dawud and I spent the next twenty minutes discussing everything from the differences between Islam, Judaism and Christianity to his time as a Golden Gloves boxer in the seventies to the wisdom that comes with age to him almost dying after being struck by a hit-and-run driver to his newborn child to my trip to Africa in four weeks.

            “You know,” Dawud, said, “There are problems between the Muslims and the Christians in Africa.”

            “Not in all parts.”  I responded.  “Uganda has a peaceful interaction amongst Christians, Muslims and other religions.”

            While I’m no expert on this topic, I do know that although many parts of Africa have peaceful coexistence between Religions there are also many parts where differing religions have fueled animosity.  There are tensions between some of the Northern Islamic countries and the sub-Saharan Christian countries.  This disparity between the north and the south is perhaps nowhere more evident than Sudan.  Sudan, which borders Uganda to the south, was formerly a British colony.  When the British vacated the country they left a power vacuum with two VERY different religions, people, natural resources and ways of life.  These differences, among other things, have fueled the crisis in that region for decades and resulted in the loss of countless lives.

            Religious confrontation is of course not specific to Africa; indeed there are MANY places in the world where religious confrontations have been more pronounced, prolonged and devastating.  I only highlight the conflicts in Africa because that is where I’m travelling.  My pleasant conversation with Dawud, and reading about the peaceful coexistence of religions in and around Uganda reminds me of what is possible not only in other parts of Africa, but the world as a whole.  I’ve been told that the denizens of Uganda are some of the friendliest, most genuine people on the face of this earth.  I hope to learn a lot from their beautiful culture and people.

            Dawud dropped us off outside Dune.  He walked around the front of his car and we shook hands and hugged – it was an odd occasion for such a deep talk and the development of such an appreciation for each other.  He gave me his card and told me to call him whenever we had fewer than ten people and Rafiqe wasn’t available.

            After Dawud got into his car he rolled down the window, “Be careful and have fun Joseph!” 

            I gave him the thumbs up.

            Having such an intense conversation on the way to Dune put me into a different mindset – I found myself more detached and reticent than usual.  Just speaking with Dawud, who’s background was vastly different than mine, opened my eyes to the fact that I was about to learn so much about a different culture AND so much about myself. 

            Inside the club – at the table next to ours, one of the girls gave the waitresses an earful because she brought a bottle of Absolut vodka instead of the requested Grey Goose.  And it made me think about what was important in life and just how far-removed my life was from real, palpable life and death decisions.  I looked around the rest of the club – filled with girls in backless dresses and guys dancing on the couches and bottles with sparklers attached to them so that everyone in the club knew who was dropping the big bucks.  I couldn’t help compare this sight to the pictures I’ve seen of Kyangwali refugee camp in Northern Uganda and think of how fortunate I was.  I also couldn’t help but wonder what my perspective would be like upon my return.  Would I appreciate places like Dune more or would they seem profligate?

            But those experiences were still a month away and the night was young.  I grabbed a drink, walked out onto the dance floor and soaked everything in.