KARIBU ARU

(Romanticism Concluding)

After crossing the border, we passed the UN base and arrived to the main street of Aru. On the right-side is the General Hospital, two adjoining Canossian convents—St. Michele & St. Joseph—the Boulangerie (Bakery) and Cyber Café (Internet Café), both of which are run by the Canossian Sisters and VOICA volunteers. The All-Girls High School (AIDIA-LEMI) and dormitories, as well as the Primary School for Boys and Girls are located beyond the convents.

Along the left-side of the street are shops selling fresh fruit, vegetables, phone cards and other basics. There are usually Mamas sitting outside along the road selling their produce too. There is a road that leads to the Health Clinic and Center for Malnourished Children. Then there is the St. Magdalene of Canossa Preschool and the building for 3rd Year High School—Coupe et Couture, a technical school. All the schools that I’ve listed are run by the Canossian Sisters. Lastly is the VOICA home where all the volunteers live. The block ends with the Catholic Church, Notre Dame du Congo.

Aru is very rural. Families live in small homes made of porta-porta (mud), brick, palms, and often a tin roof. Many grow their own crops to survive or to sell in the market. Almost everybody walks, some ride bikes, and a few own motorbikes. There are cars that pass-by, but not regularly. They usually belong to the UN, USAID, World Food Programme, or companies transporting petroleum.

All day long, the streets are mostly filled with school children. They are easily identified by their uniforms, which are clean and pressed white shirts with blue skirts for the girls and blue pants for the boys. The younger children at the preschool are similarly dressed in white shirts, but wear a variety of colored-shorts and skirts depending on their age.

Mamas are everywhere; walking to and from Aru’s market, which is about 20 minutes away from where I live. Many of the women have younger children who are strapped to their backs in colorful cloth and always seem to be sleeping. Men are walking or riding their motorbikes to and from work. The main street that goes through Aru is lined with small businesses, and many work either in the market center of Aru or for the Congolese government.

Around six o’clock in the evening, as everything begins to quiet on the streets; you hear the echo of families around their fires, preparing the evening meal. Aru is encircled by rising green hills and as the sunset continues, all the small fires create a canopy of haze. Then, as the crimson sunset fades from the sky, everything becomes still.

Concluding Remarks

Buried deeply in the pages of the New York Times, Africa showcases corrupt dictators, soaring inflation, depressing economies, poverty, famine, sexual violence, and war. At the same time, stories that go unreported are new schools being built, small businesses flourishing, and increasing access to higher education.

Everything about Africa is colorful; vibrant; and in my opinion, constantly moving forward. In Africa, it’s watching life happen. Schools are being built, maybe not yet finished and for one reason or another are taking a ridiculously long time to be completed: lack of money; dependable workers; or rain. At the same time, there’s a contentment and happiness in their lives by the closeness of family, friends and community. The intangibility of hope and determination, despite the setbacks, is both a reality and a future that everyone here works at and believes in.

I know that some may say that I’m in the honeymoon phase; referencing a time that is typically experienced when one first immerses him or herself in the developing world. Maybe, though I’m not going to be completely idealistic about my time here thus far. Taking a shower using only cold water and a bucket isn’t at all romantic; where is the government and why can’t they provide hot water, electricity would be nice too. Oh and the food we eat; I’m not going hungry or anything, but if I was tired of pasta in Italy, it’s just the beginning here in Africa: rice, beans, rice, beans, and our staple: eggplant. Even as I’m writing, a little lizard continues crawl up and down our wall. I wish he would make up his mind; his indecisiveness is exhausting for me to watch.

Romantic, I know.

I also know it’s only a matter of time before all my questions, confusion, and frustrations begin to arise…

And yes, I am very happy to call Aru home for the next year of my life.

Romanticism (Part IV)

So I know that I’ve complained about the potholes and I wish that I hadn’t been so dramatic before because as we left Uganda, they became even worse. This time my head was actually bumping up against the roof of the truck. I was even holding onto the inside door handle of the car; you know, that handle that serves no purpose other than a temporary waste deposit of Kleenex, chewed gum and fast food straw wrappers? Yes, I was actually clinging to that.

At the same time, though I would never tell Sister (whose name I will omit here) that I don’t believe maneuvering around potholes is her talent. It almost felt as if she was aiming for them. Maybe, it was an act of acceptance? Could she have driven this road too many times and is not only too tired to avoid them, but rather seeks them out just to get it over with? However, had I been driving I would have attempted the impossible: a totally thought-out, successful pothole free journey to the border….oh the DRC border.

Border Control

We approached several people gathered around trees alongside the road. There were a few small and rundown square structures that turned out to be the Border Security and Health offices. Keeping in mind these offices had maybe one window and a curtain for a door. One of the men sitting outside followed me inside, slowly reviewed my passport and then copied my information into what appeared to be a spiral notebook from the early 1970s; it was really old. I assumed it listed everyone coming in and out of the country, which now that I think about it, Congo isn’t on that many people’s lists of places to visit, so it does make sense that the notebook they used decades ago is still in use with room for many future tourists, volunteers, etc…

After being questioned and my information properly recorded, I moved into the next building for a review of my World Health Organization card listing all my vaccinations. I also needed to have a photo of myself to paste on a record sheet for the DRC police, which I didn’t have with me. But no worries, the Congolese officer knows of the Canossians and where we are located in Aru, he surprisingly followed up two days later (working on a Saturday). I owed him $10 which he collected that day as well.

Just to give you a reminder: all of these transactions were completed in French. Looking back, it was nothing compared to the next two weeks. As we finally arrived to our destination in Aru, I shared a late lunch with the Sisters and met Maria, one of the seven volunteers. She is from north Italy (obviously speaks fluent Italian) and is learning French, but she speaks no English. I don’t speak Italian and barely speak French. This is also when I learned that all the other volunteers had left for a two-week vacation. There are only two Canossian Sisters in Aru that speak English. In the coming weeks, I had maybe one-hour of English conversation.

Welcome to the Congo!!!

Romanticism (Part III)

After a roll and cup of coffee, I left the convent by taxi at 6am sharp to take the 7:30 bus from Kampala to Arua, a border town located in northern Uganda. Driving along, was the most beautiful sunrise I had ever seen! Bright and pale yellows, with hints of red that turned almost the entire sunrise pink…Gorgeous!

GAAGA Uganda (Bus Trip)

People crowded closely around the bus (myself included) waiting to register and load our luggage. To the surprise of everyone (especially the manager of GAAGA Bus Lines) an entire crate of tomatoes lay stashed inside the luggage compartment. No idea why or how? Perhaps the owner of the hundreds of tomatoes was hoping to find a better market up north? After much conversation, several men began to remove the crate. It’s a miracle that it was ever successfully placed inside; upon removal of the crate, half of the tomatoes had fallen out and rolled down the muddy streets of Kampala.

As I was forced to elbow myself in line to find my seat, I ended up quite comfortably near the aisle at the front of the bus: Seat 12. Before leaving Kampala, our driver reminded all passengers to remain respectful of him and others, “Please don’t yell at me if I make a mistake when driving, I’m human too and we all make mistakes.” He also reminded everyone of the routine inspector who would be boarding the bus somewhere along our route.

There were two young men in charge of taking tickets and alerting passengers of stops along the way. One of them gave me a little black plastic bag and told me that it was for emergencies. Just as I began to wonder what I had gotten myself into, people on the bus began to pray. Yes, pray. One of two young men led the prayer: “Lord Jesus protect us on our journey, keep our travels safe and thank you Lord for all that we have been given this day.” Then everyone on the bus greeted and shook the hand of the persons we were sitting next to and we pulled out onto the busy streets of Kampala (experiencing more of the same crater-sized potholes and one-hour traffic delays).

Over the seven hour bus ride, we pulled briefly to the side of the road at unannounced villages. Those whose destination it was had about a minute to get off the bus before the driver took off. We also took a short five minute break to purchase food and use the restrooms. I was told to by other volunteers to avoid the public bathroom if at all possible. So that’s what I did. Instead, I visited with a few passengers outside whatever Ugandan village we happened to be in.

Soon I was completely surrounded by children selling Coca-Cola, Fanta, Water, BBQ chicken on a stick & live chickens, which if we did purchase had to be kept in the luggage compartment under the bus. The possible fatality of the chickens would not be the responsibility of GAAGA. Many of the children lingered, incessantly asking me to purchase something, at that moment I was noticeably the only white person on the bus. The BBQ chicken smelled absolutely amazing, but keeping in mind the little black plastic bag I was given, I chose not to indulge my craving for fear of an even longer afternoon journey.

One of the passengers I was sitting next to works for the Ugandan Elections Committee. He is traveling to his district of northern Uganda to prepare for the Presidential Elections which take place one year from January. It was a nice conversation, but I did struggle in not asking obvious questions: do you find the elections fair? Is democracy successful in your country? Do you believe Museveni serves the people of Uganda before himself? You know, obvious questions that in the US anybody can ask of President Obama.

Trying to not make this blog a platform for my political viewpoints, the peaceful and democratic elections that have kept Museveni in power for more than two decades does lead some to question. The recent attacks in Uganda during this years’ World Cup may not have been caused by the Somali terrorist organization (al-Shabaab) as so many of us were led to believe, but rather orchestrated by a powerful, persuasive, and manipulative dictator seeking to establish assured victory for his upcoming elections. Then again, I don’t want to make this blog political. But if you’re interested, you can do some more research. Attacks against the rising class of educated young Ugandans, not only kills civilians, but destroys the future generation of one country’s leaders.

We arrived at our final destination in Arua Town, Uganda. The town itself is very developed, as someone pointed out to me the hospital, city bank, and Makerere University buildings. I had enough time after getting off the bus to worry if the Sisters in Aru received the message that I was coming today. After a while, two sisters arrived speaking no English and I of course still struggle to speak comprehensible French. (Refreshing my high school French in Rome, where I was surrounded by Italian, was not easy.) After a short stop to purchase 25 gallons of paint for the new convent, we headed for the Uganda/DRC border.

Romanticism (Part II)

It’s really difficult for me to describe without sounding cliché, but just take a moment to imagine all that you can about Africa…

And here’s what I saw:

At least 60 United Nations soldiers were arriving from Bangladesh. Although it complicated the poorly labeled visa lines, it was exciting for me to see UN Peacekeepers. There is a large UN base outside of Kampala and several smaller bases throughout Uganda. Also, MONUSCO-the United Nations Organization Stabilization Mission in the Democratic Republic of the Congo-is located in Aru.

As far as the visa lines were concerned, confusion led the majority of us shuffling from one line to the next and this wasn’t because we were hustling for the shortest queue, but for some reason the Customs officials kept closing and opening new stations.

After handing over € 30 as an entrance fee into Uganda and posing for a quick photo (Uganda takes a picture of everyone who enters the country) I went to retrieve my three very heavy pieces of luggage, loaded them up on a cart and pushed my way outside. As I stood there: confident, lost and completely enamored by the fact that I was finally in Africa, an older man came immediately forward and did his best to pronounce my name: “Hill, Kaite.” I must have stood out?

I will always remember this taxi ride.

Leaving the airport, we cruised on nicely paved roads for about 10km. As the roads narrowed, we began to dodge what appeared to be one-way traffic, with us clearly driving in the wrong direction. As I unconsciously reached for my seatbelt only to find it unfastened and broken beside me, I began to realize that we were driving correctly and that the dodging of oncoming traffic was due to the design of the road itself, where only one vehicle can truly be accommodated. This continued for about 30minutes.

The roads became red dirt and potholes in Uganda are more like giant craters placed carefully on the roads with the purpose of causing the most damage and discomfort. As the car dips down into the pothole, I have to wonder: will we come back up?

As we drove along, there was non-stop honking to alert people that we were approaching; warning young men on bikes with crates full of fruit and women carrying bowls filled with fruits, vegetables, and water on top their heads while their babies were strapped tightly to their backs. Hundreds of shacks were set up selling everything from furniture pieces, colorful fabrics, chickens, and phone cards. Children sat idly alongside the road, watching the people and cars pass by. Uganda is a beautiful country; very green hills rose in the background and almost all over small fires burned (burned the trash, that is).

Arriving at the Canossian convent in Entebbe, I was shown to my room and given a few hours of rest before dinner. After traveling for almost 24 hours, I crashed despite the noise of hundreds of children playing games outside my window. The Canossians run both a school that sits opposite the convent and a clinic that is attached.

After dinner, I was given a tour of the clinic. There were several malarial patients who were under observation. However, the clinic lacks the capacity to care for more than a few overnight patients. The rooms were small, barely lit and filled with your typical flies, mosquitoes and what have you.

The observatory room had eight beds lined up against the wall without sheets and pillows. I was told that patients must provide their own bedding and food for when they come. The clinic has rather ancient, but operable equipment for an optician, but no longer has a certified optician. Italian dentists and opticians visit and provide services a couple times per year at the clinic.

The pharmacy, or rather walk-in closet, is filled with medication, antibiotics, and vaccines donated to the Canossians by organizations and other benefactors. They are placed on old and broken shelving in an order that I couldn’t figure out and labeled with masking tape. After my drive through Entebbe and seeing all that I did, I know the Sisters have done the best they could with the very little they have.

Romanticism (Part I)

Recalling the times I have flown into LaGuardia, JFK or Newark International Airport, it has always been very clear to me who on the flight is a first-timer to NYC. It’s the person who leans far over toward the window to admire the skyline below; who tries to take photos from inside an airplane (perhaps they work for some, but mine have never turned out); or who tries to whisper discreetly to their traveling companion upon seeing Manhattan (the whispers that always seem to be quite loud and filled with anticipation for their upcoming adventure in the city). Yes, those are the first-timers.

Then there are those on the plane, who for one reason or another can’t be bothered to look out the window and who have seen the view far too many times to marvel at its beauty. Admittedly, I may have shown this carelessness upon landing to prove what a native I had become to the city after two years of residence, but really the view below has and always will impress me.

When we began our descent over Lake Victoria it wasn’t glistening, sparkling, or shimmering, but it was peaceful. The houses below weren’t colorful, grand or original. The roads were few and the bridges even fewer. There really wasn’t much to see at all. (Kampala, the capital city, is north of the airport in Entebbe.)

As the descent continued, I thought about all that I will experience this coming year, including: challenges in my work assignments, frustration as I learn and adjust to French and Lingala, excitement in meeting new roommates and friends, and a lot of tears as I struggle to understand and accept the extreme poverty that people live in.

I also noticed that I wasn’t alone in my anticipation for all that would come to pass. The people on the flight were most likely returning home, visiting family, or traveling for work or pleasure, but I can for certain say that everybody was leaning over to catch a glimpse.

So the next time you fly, whether it’s your first time to the destination or you’ve been there a hundred times, be excited; excited that you belong and that someone or something is waiting for you, whether its family or friends, a boyfriend or girlfriend, or if it’s a new adventure and someplace unknown that awaits you. Be excited. Life is too short not to.

p.s. For obvious reasons stated above, I have never hesitated to show my excitement upon landing in Lincoln, Nebraska (& I must admit, New Jersey too!)

Here in Africa, life is pretty cool.

As if I didn’t feel bad enough already about having brought so much luggage, when I arrived to what is to be my home for the next year, a young girl (who could be no more than 12 years) came up and greeted me, then she proceeded to grab the heaviest of my three suitcases, gracefully placed it on top her head and moved quickly toward my bedroom. I was still dragging the last of my suitcases when she returned for that one as well.

Welcome to Africa.

My flights were uneventful. To be honest, I was so exhausted leaving Rome that I didn’t really have any feelings or deep thoughts. Nor could I recollect my long list of expectations, both realistic and romantic; essentially, I lacked all emotion. Which is strange, especially when considering how long I’ve worked and waited for this moment?

Addis Ababa, Ethiopia left me with an unfortunate impression of smoke; people can smoke inside the airport. Again, why I had such a problem with this I have no idea? In the past, I’ve rarely hesitated to partake in the occasional activity of social smoking. But this was so awful. I tried to sit facing the wall-to-wall windows and look out onto Africa. After all, it was my first time to the continent! I was supposed to be experiencing something amazing, right? After years of reading, studying, and writing on anything and everything historical, social, economic, and political, it was all right there. But instead I complained to myself about all the smoke blowing in my face.

However, there were nice shops full of typical African merchandise, beautifully-colored dresses, and duty-free alcohol and perfumes. All the flights were destined to someplace cool, like Abu Dhabi, South Africa, Ghana, and of course, my flight to Kampala…

And my arrival in Entebbe (Kampala) Uganda was pretty sweet.

Simplicity

This blog will be simpler than the website. Why? For 2 reasons:

1) Because here in Aru, we run on dial-up; if there’s a dial at all.

2) Because the previous website exhausted me (to an extent).

Formation was intense and community was tough. As most of you know, I’m not one for micromanaging, but in a community-designed lifestyle that is pretty much what it is: micromanagement. Like or love it, that’s the way it goes. I enjoyed everybody—Diggy, Rory, David, Meghan, Sr. Angela—but as each of us will equally admit: some days were long. We operated on a community schedule which left small amounts of free time. Thus, when I did indulge in these uninterrupted moments, I was quite exhausted.

p.s. keeping in mind the aforementioned exhaustion, I will be writing only when I’m inspired to write, which I hope will be often, but I make no promises. Not too regular, but not seldom either. We’ll see how it goes :)

(actually, I hope to be writing a lot!!)

Welcome to my new blog!