The house is beautiful; there are 14 rooms and a garage, two showers with hot water, a stove, microwave, countertop deep fryer, four chandeliers, a board room, a bar, two balconies, and a pomegranate tree. The refrigerator is nicer than mine in Littleton. We’ve also added three soccer balls, 7 tins of instant coffee (so far), a gigantic list of rules, and a kerosene powered cooker (because our power goes out at least once a day). All the basic ingredients needed for a good six weeks.

Practicum is in full swing but so far I’m the first working girl in the house. I began interning at Uganda Youth Anti-AIDS Association (UYAAS) on October 17th working 8-4, Monday through Thursday (!!!). The people who work there are amazing and act like a large family. I’ve already been given two embroidered logo shirts and we all take break tea and eat lunch together each day. In the afternoon we watch soap opera re-runs or have dance offs. We do some work once and a while too I suppose. For the four to five weeks I’m there I’m in charge of rebuilding their IT up from crumbled mess it has become. Their current website is in complete disarray and because they saw I had HTML experience (from an intro class my freshman year of school) I’m not in charge of constructing a shiny, brand new website. Not surprisingly but still frustrating, is the fact that software downloads are basically impossible in Africa so I’m building it on Dreamweaver 1998 (!!!) trial software, the most bootleg thing I’ve ever seen. Despite the minor setbacks in the beginning though the organization operates semi like The Office which provides me with some entertaining times.

For our practicum reports we need to have amassed 180 hours by the end of the six weeks but because I’m working forty hour weeks, not even including the forty minute commute each way by hours are being consumed in mass quantities. There is mild jealousy in the house but I promised to amuse myself by preparing a surplus amount of baked goods the last two weeks of practicum for them while I relax and play house-mom all day.

In other news, I met twenty-three year old Ugandan boy named Steven. He is the carbon copy of my ex boyfriend, Kevin, but he is actually black so he pulls off his ridiculous style with a bit more ease. He thinks I would look beautiful with dreadlocks and even likes me when I hiccup all night long, which I demonstrated last Saturday night.

Also six of us are in the process of renting a house for the six week practicum period. And we’re getting a puppy from William McCool’s family, raising it, and giving it back when we leave. Life could not get sweeter. I’ve also been sleeping in a double bed this entire time, but back in the states I have a twin. I don’t think I’m going to leave this continent.

Therefore I’ve started to look into grants and scholarships to come back in the summer. One of my friends on the program worked at an orphanage in South Africa for 6 weeks during the summer and had an amazing experience. I’m also dabbling with the idea of getting TOEFL certified and going to Mozambique (one of the most beautiful Africa countries) and teaching English for 5 weeks this summer. We’re also networking quite a bit here and I met an amazing professor at Makerere University School of Public Health who has a primary school/orphanage that is open to receiving and housing volunteers. In that case I would only pay for a flight.

But for now I guess I need to concentrate on the present. Practicum begins Monday, ha, for some at least. Our academic directors are a bit overwhelmed and we’ve absorbed some of the residual stress. Want to work with the President’s Emergency Fund for AIDS Releif (one of the few productive bills President Bush pushed through Congress) and how it affects the ABCs of HIV prevention in the youth population. Over fifty percent of the Ugandan population is under the age of 18, which is ridiculous and scary in a country where sex education is not manadatory in schools and even when it is taught Absitnence Only reigns king.

“So I’ve decided to kill all of the meat that I eat during practicum so I can fully appreciate it. And I feel that it’s more morally correct.”
Young Ally Sheedy
“…so are you going to let them fight back?”
Orlando Bloom

Upon our arrival at Sipi Falls, Juno, Katie Holmes decided to forego the nature walk, in search of a magic elixir. We ventured into the village and met a young guy named Roger. We went through the barrage of introductory information and he told us that he could bring us to where the magic elixir flowed in mass quantities, and for a minute amount of shillings. Off we went, little did we know that we would be going on a nature walk of our own.

The village that Sipi Falls is located in is a series of hills and valleys that cradle the waterfalls. After reaching each new point of higher ground the scenery morphs giving the viewer a new perspective of beautiful region polka dotted with bright houses on a background of rich green.

We walked through the town center which consisted of a few convenience and grocery stores and a bar and took a right up a hill. Up we climbed.

Roger was 19 and couldn’t believe we were older than him. Even in living in the picturesque Kapchorra region for all his years, his life lacked comparative beauty. When he was 11 his mother left his ill father for another man and moved to Kenya with his younger brother and sister. Roger felt obligated to stay, provide for, and take care of his father, and at 14 his father passed. His grandmother gave him shelter but Roger was forced to continue to forego school in order to make a little money to survive upon. The Sipi falls region relies primarly upon agriculture and tourism to sustain it’s inhabitants. A coalition in the village constructed a building to serve as a home base from where the innumberable tourists could go to seek out a tour guide. This was where Roger found employment that ultimately saved him from ending up as another street child or even criminal. He now gives tours and saves money so that someday he move to Kenya to be with his mother and family, and also to pay for school.

Unlike, some other young African men that are overjoyed at seeing a young Muzungu girl, Roger was neither a creep, nor was he looking to take advantage of us. The hour and a half we spent with him was pure leisure. On the way to the source, he picked a ripe coffee bean and explained how the skin and casing were removed, then the white beans were laid out to dry for two days, usually on the paved sides of roads. Then they were roasted and packaged. He also volunteered to take pictures of three of us at every beautiful turn.

When we reached the top of the hill and the source, it became clear that the magic elixir, Roger referred to was the local brew and has caused blindness and death in upwards of fourty consumers in recent weeks. We politely declined and instead asked for sealed alcohol specifically. Our lovely guide understood and apologized. We trekked back down the hill to a grocery story and bought 700ml of Waragi gin and three Coca Colas for 10,200Shs ($5.10 !!!), and parted ways, but not before Roger could run to three other places in order to find coffee for me to buy.

He was one of the sweetest people I’ve met in all of Uganda thus far. Foregoing precious time he could have used to secure tours for the next day, or to actually give one, Roger took three little Muzungu girls around his village for over an hour, and got nothing to show for it, except a good conversation. It was a situation that I have found myself in over and over while here in Uganda. Time moves slower, and consequentially people have learned to enjoy every moment and ultimately treat each other more like human beings than we do in the “developed” Western world.

It seemed like a terrible tease that Sipi falls would come before our rural homestay, especially with my assigned partner. I’m stuck with Phoebe (from Friends) for three days and she will probably one of three people I will encounter that will speak English. And if I’m lucky we may even be sharing the same bed. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not opposed to sharing a bed, couch, or bathtub in order to have a place to sleep, but Phoebe has an intrinsically bad smell that she seems to carry with her. She showers once a week. Oh, and She also thinks we’re sharing clothing, the next three days could be messy.

I have a craving to cuddle. After sharing a bed with Sandra O. for a week it’s unfortunate that I’m back in my double alone again. There are two romances so far in the group. Porsha and Orlando Bloom (a girl). And, Juno and William McCool. So that leaves one sseebo (sir) with 28 nnyabos (ma’ams) fighting over him. Ha. Not very appealing, so I’m amusing myself with the indigenous population and the babies.

After school on Friday, we went to check out an open air market at the Kamocha stage and get some beers behind the meat shack. We met a man named Oswald who scooted his chair over to us and told us he was so happy to see us, Americans. He told us the next round was on him and began talking away.

He was from the Mbale region where we had lunch during our Western excursion. His wife and three children lived there but he works in Las Vegas. Like most here, he loved the fact that we were Americans but was additionally excited because he lived there at times as well. He was back in Uganda, his birth land, for a month before returning. He explained he was a pilot who monitors and protects the airspace over Vegas but also had served a term in both Iraq and Afghanistan.

He fired questions in rapid succession like; How are you adjusting? How long have you been here? How are you doing? After we answered the questions he would grab the speakers hand and shake it forcefully saying “That is good, that is good.”

We rambled through the usual introduction speech we had come to expect. “Yes, we’re from America. We’re students at SIT studying development. We’ve been here for over a month. Yes, we love it. No, we are not married.” At the end of our speech he decided to enlighten us with his motto, “If you are doing good, when it is good, where it is good, you are my friend, my brother, my sister.” A motto that would assist any person hoping to cross cultural bridges.

He put extra emphasis on making sure we weren’t lonely. He explained that the only time he has ever felt lonely was when he was stationed in Iraq. While there he saw almost no women or children and it drained his soul in ways he hadn’t imagined.

We certainly do not have that problem here. Kampala crawls with three million people during the day but falls to two million come night fall. But the nightlife has just as much to offer. On Friday night, we ventured to a club called Ang Noir. We went with Karen (from Mean Girls’) mother, who owns two restaurants and four Mercedes Benz. It would figure that I would ride in my first Benz when I was in Africa. Her mom who is only about 35 years old got us into the club for free after surpassing the bouncer’s line. The club which consisted of four floors was playing oldies hits that included John Mellencamp, Madonna, and even ‘The Twist’ has it’s share of airtime. However my friends and I spent most of our time in the lower level which was playing Ugandan hip hop. We didn’t have any problems finding dance partners, and the generals had to step in only a few times to rescue their ladies.

The Gilbey’s gin and Nile Special occupied our minds until around four when we began to make our way home. Laura’s mom seemed to have forgotten that she was driving home and also that Laura does not speak any Luganda. As she rambled in her native tongue Laura took charge of the situation and declared she had only had one beer much much earlier in the night. So we hopped into the Mercedes, of course Laura behind the steering wheel on the right, and drove approximately 5mph on the left side of the road back to the hotel. She only hit one pot hole the size of a small cow.

And, as far as being lonely goes. Little tidbits of home show up at the most random moments that are comforting yet also bittersweet.
I heard an obscure psedo-alternative-techno song that I’ve just recently adopted as one of my favorites (mu America) on a commercial shown on the local TV station.
And in Luganda class a week or two ago, our teacher Tito asked us if we did our laundry at home in America. I answered in Luganda, that my mom did it for me, and Tito laughed and said, “Ahh but you’re still a daddy’s girl.” He went around the table and named each of us daddy’s or mommy’s girl, and got all correct. “It’s intrinsic,” he said, “I have kids too, I can tell.”

I’ve also been working on my domestic instincts. I bought a few dresses in the market two days ago and have already broken a strap. The clothing in little shops is mostly second hand..or third or fourth, but they’re very cheap. All summer long I wore dresses and I have an insatiable itch to wear them again (being the intelligent girl I am I didn’t bring any). Armed with my little sewing kit I intended to reattach the strap and also to shorten both…to the same length ha. We’ll see how it works out.

Tonight Lilian, the live-in house help, decided that I should learn how to cook ‘Ugandan.’ She cooks over charcoal stoves in a little shack that serves as a kitchen. I’m pretty sure she could smell my lack of domestic instinct, and she only gave me the job of slicing the carrots. I watched her chop up cabbage after and she gave me some advice on African men.

She asked how old I was and then declared that I was better than her meaning that I was older. I guessed she was 19, although she looks 23. No, she said she was just 17. I couldn’t believe it. She came to the Bwires when she was fifteen and intended to stay only two years until she had made enough money to buy land and chickens and start her life. But, she was still here, six months past her goal. Her sister Evelyn was the house help before Lilian. Lilian said that she wanted to get married at 30, which is surprising because its social frowned upon to get married later in life. She explained saying, “I no like African men. They are bad. I go back to the village and they all love me because they all think I have money. They only like you if they think you have money.”

She told me that Evelyn had beaten me, she was 27. She was unmarried but had an eight year old. Lilian explained that at 19 she was raped at school and had the child (abortion is considered sinful). “They are bad, these African men.” She stated that I would make fresh passion juice next. It came out bomb.

So far I haven’t been missing home all that much. If I could pick three things to have right now I would chose my baby bunny, a pound of macaroni and cheese, and raw vegetables. Sorry mom and dad. And although today is our one month of anniversary I feel fine. When we arrived we were given a “Culture Shock” chart. The omen announced that on the fourth and fifth weeks we would be at our lowest point for the entire three and a half months. Maybe if I was by myself during the fifth week I would have coasted through, because it seems the only thing that has bothered me has not been an aspect of Ugandan culture or adjustment but the reactions of my SIT mates. Here are some of the beauties..

“Guys what are you doing!?- Get in the vans!”
“Are we going to get lunch money or what, we’re going to starve?”
“We definitely did not learn that. I think that the advanced learners should be split from the less advanced because my class couldn’t learn anything.”
“I mean, it would really help me a lot if I next time you could bullet the instructions for the assignments instead of using sentences, because I didn’t understand the assignment.”
“I’m used to eating when I want and pooping when I want and this schedule really just isn’t working out for me.”

And for my favorite…(At the landfill site workers make money by collecting different garbage to be recycled. It is an income for people who have no other source, it is a dirty, smelly, and mildly dehumanizing job)
“Did you want to be a garbage man when you were little?”
“….Well no one expects to see themselves in positions like this..you need money and you do what you need to do.”

The tone is hard for me to convey but trust me they were all ridiculous statements. Oh, and no one gets below an A- on their practicum (unless they don’t do it) and no one fails the Luganda assessment. (And, the teachers have public stated this.) The purpose of being in Africa is to absorb as much as you possibly can. If you wanted challenging academics and tests every other day you should have studied abroad at a university program. Deep breaths need to be taken and everyone needs to put their dictionaries and thesauruses away and drink something more than one Smirnoff Ice.

Ahhhh and that’s my rant and it felt good.

My friends have been handling it quite well actually. William McCool was walking home with Juno yesterday and declares “Ahhhh shit…I think I just shit my pants a little.” Turns out he has malaria and shat his pants in front of the girl he likes, but he’s still in high spirits.
“
And two of my best girls are having a ball together.

After the heaviness of Rwanda we headed back to Mbarara and stayed for another night at a lux hotel. Sandra O. and I cuddled in a huge double and Porsha’s room had a balcony. And, there was hot water! On Friday, we did a short game drive through Queen Elizabeth National Park and saw buffalo, two species of antelope, warthogs, baboons, and specks of lions. No giraffes. But we saw zebras earlier on the trip so I can’t complain. We also visited a development village and played an hour of duck-duck-goose with the cutest kids. I stole two.

We were given a short introduction by an inmate and introduced to a man who had confessed to leading a Hutu Power faction and was in charge of thousands of deaths in the region around one of the church memorials we visited. He was a short stalky man who did not seem to possess the blood, shame, or guilt of thousands of victims on his hands. He simply stated that he was doing his time and moving on with his life, he encouraged us to relay the message to Rwandans who have escaped persecution by taking refuge in America to return and do their penance to the society they committed their crimes upon. He sat and before we were done clapping, eight elderly women in potato sacks came flailing towards the stage and the crowd erupted in cheers

A few minutes of genocide and the reminder that this was prison brushed aside by a potato sack race, and the episode had barely begun. The band took center stage and the singer gyrated and jumped around as he sang upbeat Rwanda music. He looked like Snoop Dogg and before we knew what was happening we were led off the stage and onto the dance floor by potential murderers. I’ll give you some highlights to paint a bit of a picture. Jennifer Aniston grinded up on Snoop Dogg. Denis Rodman broke out his rhythm we all knew he had. Juno and Ali Sheedy did the worm down the entire length of the church. Snoop Dogg did some backflips. And I danced with a three year old wearing an Elmo sweater.

It felt like the government was trying to sell us a story that read “Yes, we had genocide, yes we’re sad about it, but look how great we are recovering.” Genocide scars that are only fifteen years only cannot simple be erased by new roads and some flowers. What we saw was that the goverment had painted a very pretty picture on top of a crumbling wall.

“If you save a single life, you save the world.”

In one hundred days beginning in April of 1994 over one million Rwandans were murdered many with as much humililation and with as little dignity as possible. 800,000 Tutsis, 75% of the population, were wiped out and about 200,000 Hutus.

Not a surprise, the United States were very aware of what was happening but after an unsuccessful attempt at peacekeeping resulting in 12 American UN workers deaths the government did not want another misstep to turn bad publicity upon them once again, so they decided to stand by and watch, sidestep the term genocide, and continue to gather information, right up to the point when a million people had been slaughtered.

The French government helped to fuel the genocide more than many realize, selling 12 million worth of weapons to Rwanda a few months before the genocide reached its peak at 50,000 murders per day

After the informational site visit we visited two church memorials, the site of two massacres. Many endagered Tutsi fled to sacred ground on the foundational belief that chuches were sanctuaries from the evil of the world, and soldiers would not be able to commit their tasks of genocide in god’s presence. They were very wrong. The smaller church contained 10,000 human beings clothing drapped on the wooden ceiling beams and piled on the chuch pews. Hundreds of skulls were neatly lined on floor to ceiling shelving at the back of the church. Only a layer of dust separated us from the remains. Long cracks crisscrossed over many skulls indicating the cause of death. One still had a spear embedded in the top of the skull. A purple banner, had the words ”If you had knows us you would not have killed us,” embroidered onto it. Rosarys that had not offered salvation were hung neatly above the pile of discarded and rotting shoes with a few shotgun and bullet casings mixed in. A small schoolhouse building was located behind the church. When the soldiers arrived the building was occupied by a daycare for young children. The soldiers had taken the small children and smashed their bodies against the brick wall. The stain is still potent today. The schoolwork they left behind was gathered in a trunk on the floor.

The memorial felt less eerie than the previous less graphic one before. What I saw made me feel sick but I beleive that that is the only way to prevent more atrocities like this one from happening. Instead of saying “Oh it’s really terrible those people died” after reading a fact sheet at a museum, you can see, feel, and touch a piece of these victims lives and feel a piece of thier pain.

After the genocide there were special courts established with the sole purpose of dealing with the influx of genocide related trials. At the initial rate it would have taken the original court system 100 years to finish the trials.

The next day we visited a prison where they had 2,000 men and women convicted of crimes of genocide and roughly 2,000 other inmates. When we entered the wardens office we were handed a glossy brouchure entitled, “Kigali Prison Welcomes You” in rainbow colored word art.