Walking Through The Slums

Yesterday I met with William Kwezi for the day to explore some of the other parts of Kampala. We met in the usual hyper-congested "old taxi park" (literally, where the taxis park and pickup new loads of people) just within the borders of downtown. A note about the taxis: here, what they call taxis are the equivalent of our busses. You pay a flat rate, usually between 600 and 1,000 shillings (about 25 to 50 cents) and it takes a predetermined route through some of the most confusing, disordered, unkept streets imaginable. Instead of a bus, they use the matatu. Now, imagine the classic 60's VW hippie-van, and instead of shag carpet on the interior... actually, forget about the interior, just picture about as many people as you can fit in one vehicle all sitting halfway on top of one another, all of whose heads go bobbling back and forth as the tires vainly attempt to weave around the potholes. There are no signs of destination on the vans either, a money collector leans out the window as it speeds past and simply points in the direction they are headed. They stop for just about any kind of physical gesture that may be made from a potential customer. Several have stopped just by my making momentary eye contact with them as they passed, yelling at possible travelers. 

Now, the equivalent to the taxi is the bodaboda: a scooter or motorcycle. Tell them where you want to go, barter a price, jump on the back, and hold on for dear life. They pride themselves on being quick. Which they are, and are much more time efficient than the "taxis" since they can weave in and out of the other stopped cars and use the sidewalks if they so desire... in fact, they can use anything if they want to. Just make sure to keep your knees plastered to the bike or you may lose them as you pass oncoming traffic. Anyhow, public transport is an experience in itself. 

So, I met William at the "old taxi park" and we took off to the west side of the city. As we arrived at the destination, I took a glance around and didn't notice anything unusual about the surroundings. It looked just like the rest of the outskirts of the city did. However, we began walking and took a turn down a hill into a valley... and it was then that I saw what looked like a sea of rusted tin and debris. The slum. It hides in the shadows of the new building projects and businesses on the hills that surround the bleak looking valley. As we walked into the midst of the huts and shacks that make up this area, I noticed each of them was not much bigger than a standard bathroom. Some with straw roofs, others with rusted-through tin. Some with mud walls, others with poorly laid brick. The alleys were dominated by the presence of the deep gutters that ran along them. These fill with water during the rains and the people use them for washing or bathing... a filthy composition of mud and garbage. However, these were only meant to withstand a certain amount of precipitation. During the wet season, the entire valley floods and people live in a tepid pool that invades their "houses." 

However, the people don't seem glum or dispirited. They work. They continue to push on and make do with what they have. Persistence when most would concede defeat. And it spreads for nearly a mile... much further than it should. 

The worst part about this, was that by this point, I was not in a state of shock at what I was seeing. I had accepted it. I had seen living conditions like this in so many other places all throughout the city. The only difference here is the amount of them packed together so tightly in such a grim space. I knew in my head that I should be affected by this, but I was neither in awe or disbelief. That may be the saddest part. The steady diet of being surrounded by this each day and then reading in the papers each morning about the corruption in the political system and not seeing any changes in the national budget to help eventually settles in, and the undeniable fact that there is no aid coming in the near future for these families is unwillingly digested. It's like when you start drinking and hate the taste, but you do it because everyone else does and eventually it feels good. Yeah, everyone else does it, but this won't ever feel good. At least I hope not. 

Editing and Planning

Over the past few days I have been working to edit the surplus of footage (over 6 hours already) that I have taken thus far. I know six hours does not sound like that much, but when you sit down to go through each shot to see exactly what you want to use or toss, it becomes an incredibly lengthy undertaking. Along with that, transferring the raw footage to the computer and then saving it to a backup hard drive as well takes even more time. But, despite the time it takes, it is a fun process, and really allows me to glean insight into what direction the film is heading in advance. I still have some big projects to shoot and people to interview. I will be heading to Kenya this next week to focus on health care and AIDS, then back to Kampala to film the agricultural developments of William Kwezi, then to walk the slums to see the drastic side of poverty, then to Gulu (the same city that the Invisible Children project is based in) to focus on education with Fr. Tony Wach, and even to Murchison Falls National Park to include the popular tourist side of Africa. Of course, I will be tagging along with any project that catches my eye or ear in the meantime in order to make this a diverse view of East Africa. Many times people tend to show only the drastic, devastating side to the outside public because that is the most shocking and can gain funds. Others only show the beautiful side in order to gain tourist attraction. So, the hope is to show both extremes and everything in between to give (more or less) a "true" glimpse into East Africa. 

Granted, a true version of African life is nearly impossible here, as each 40 kilometers travelled reveals an entirely different tribe or clan, speaking yet another unique language (I can't count the number of languages that I've stumbled across, luckily, many people also speak a bit of English). The country is extremely diverse, with an overwhelming number of traditions and customs and people. It would be difficult enough to convey the beauty and tragedy of life in just one city. However, that is all a part of the story. 

An Afterthought

I have been thinking about my journey to the school at Nsumba over the past few days, and I find myself consistently dwelling upon a very specific image that I encountered while there. That is, of two young toddlers gripping my one available hand as I filmed the orphanage dormitory. One grasping my thumb and index finger, the other holding the remaining three fingers on my left hand, since I had the camera in my right. This was how we travelled. For a full hour or so. Each time we sat, both immediately jumped into my lap. They were content here, not only for affection, but they were entranced by my leg hair and decided to pet my calves. I couldn't help but laugh at that. Though, upon standing, the two would clutch on to my fingers as quickly as they could... and it remains very vivid in my mind. 

They were absolutely starved for affection, and immediately it dawned on me how much I was missing in my perception of what I was encountering. It is easy to be overwhelmed by the nature of the living conditions and to direct focus toward that. However, I began to reflect more and more on the family life of these incredibly charismatic and beautiful kids. That is... that there is no family life for them. There is no father, no mother, no nurture and comfort when they need it. No constant, unconditionally loving person to rely on. It's heartbreaking to think about this for too long, especially after spending so much time with them and bonding so quickly. This has been troubling me because I have spoken with many people locally, and have found that adoption is nearly impossible here. First, many don't have the ability to do so. Second, there still remains a very strong connection to clans and most people don't want to adopt outside of their own. So, that leaves these bubbling toddlers with nothing, and nothing coming. The orphans remain orphans... a very sad reality for what would have been such wonderfully bright futures...

A Few Stills

I was finally able to get my computer connected here in Kampala. So, now I can begin adding some media to the site so you can see what footage I've been getting since I began. The following are a few stills from the past two weeks, encompassing Lake Victoria, The Rwenzori Mountains while in Kasese, Kibiito, Nsumba, and a few others. Most of these are scenic, as they are from the rural areas. I will begin to add the more urban areas next, as that is an entirely different experience of Uganda. The pictures are yet to be edited, but this is the raw form. So, for now, enjoy!

"We Believe Children Should Not Be On The Streets" - The gated entrance to the St. John's Orphanage School in Nsumba

One of the newly baptized members in a small, very poor Catholic Church outside of Fort Portal

Children out playing during a break in the school day

The Rwenzori Mountains ("The Mountains of the Moon") viewed from Kasese

A village butcher shop on the side of the road on the way to Kasese

A Sunset on Lake Victoria

So, that's it for now, I'll post more soon. I will be traveling to William Kwezi's agricultural community this weekend, and then off to Voi, Kenya for two weeks. The adventure continues.

Another Day, Another Project

Early this morning I travelled with Fr. Gene Hattie to St. John's School in Nsumba (about 48 km South of Kampala). It seems that each person I meet here is involved with yet another crucial service site or project (many with non-profit groups and organizations) and is working desperately in an attempt to better people's lives, homes, education, health, etc. Truthfully, the number of projects becomes a bit overwhelming. There is so much need. In most cases, using the phrase "bettering people's lives" doesn't quite translate to an American understanding of life. Most of the work raises the level of care to an American substandard of living. I don't think many can even imagine the original circumstances, and still wouldn't if they were written here. So, it is a bit obvious where this is heading even before I begin focusing on the site I filmed today.

Arriving at St. John's was a journey in itself. It is located far off of the main roads and requires some off road "hold onto anything you can, so you don't fly out the window" type driving. Immediately, it becomes apparent that just getting children to school is a difficult endeavor. This seems to be true in many of the rural schools, as well as the rural clinics. Many of the children walk quite a distance on their own, along streets that most parents in the U.S. would not dream of allowing their children on. These are the kids with homes and families (or at least partial ones). The rest of the children at the school are orphans. Some orphaned as a result of AIDS, others poverty, still others for any number of reasons. The school is home to some 350 orphans (ranging from infants to teenagers), all needing shelter, food, clothing, education and health care (not to mention love and affection). The school does not have the adequate funds to provide proper facilities or care, and therefore is struggling to stay afloat. Yet, the children persist, as do the teachers and the others attempting to help in any way they can. They sleep on triple bunk beds (many of which are falling apart) crammed next to each other in rooms without windows. They use the bathroom in latrines with no roof. Even the floors (a fairly basic thing, yes?) have holes large enough for the children to fall through.

I suppose you'd become numb to it after some time. Or perhaps not. Either way, it is unacceptable. And yet, there is hope. Not from without, but from within. It is the children that smile and laugh, that run and chase, that hold your hand or clutch your leg, that become fascinated with sunglasses, or sit in the dirt and ask you to sit with them: these are the things that move me to believe that change has to come at some point. Because when people see this, they are moved to make a difference. Aren't they? Or does it not matter? As long as we can switch off the film at the end of the program and change the channel to something better, the help won't come. And sure, the children smile and laugh because they're children. That's what children do. But, as they grow up, without help, their futures become dimmer and dimmer. The school cannot support these children for long, and many of them may not make it through... or make it at all. BUT, I leave here in a month and a half and then I get to come back to the U.S. where I don't have to see it every day. So what do I care?

Evening Thoughts

The nights here are cool. The soft breeze is welcome after the hot, dry afternoon sun. Each day, no matter the time, music can be heard somewhere in the distance (and here, with music comes dancing). I am doing my best to revel in my time here: to enjoy each moment thoroughly, as they are rich, vibrant and full of life. That is, full of life in many different ways. In just two weeks, I have seen the splendor of the mountains, lakes and scenery... the laughter and smiles of people in their homes... the welcoming arms of old friends... the frantic speed of the city... the frail shape of bodies on medical beds... the excitement and wonder in the eyes of children to see a video camera... the cattle and storks sifting through and feeding on garbage... the elderly holding out their hands for change... the naked children playing in the dirt... the cockroaches in my sink... the impressive commonplace balance of four people on a motorcycle speeding down pothole-ridden dirt roads... the deserted beginnings of medical clinics lacking funding... the dedication of believers marching to honor their martyrs... the overwhelming number of houses painted in bright pink or yellow as advertisements for phone companies... the genuine laughter shared between friends... the absent hopelessness of a drunk lying on the side of the road... the overcrowded shops, sheds, tents, blankets and tables taken for businesses in the marketplace... the power and grace of traditional dancing... the drastic difference of living between neighbors, one in a broken, crumbling shack, the other in a new, stunning, fenced in palace... the comedy, tragedy and beauty of another culture... another life... another world...

And yet, it is not so different from home.

Back "Home"

I have been in Fort Portal, Uganda this past week (about 300 km West of Kampala nestled in the Rwenzori Mountains). There is much to speak about, however, as I am at an internet cafe I will try to keep my comments brief for now and elaborate when I get back to Kampala tomorrow. But, I thought it appropriate to say a few things while I am still here.

I have spent the majority of my time here between two sites - in Kibiito with Fr. Silvino at the parish and school there, and at the AIDS clinic in Virika with Sr. Kyegote. I have had the opportunity to get a lot of great footage here, as well as some beautiful interviews that I think will serve beautifully as insight into the lives of these projects.

The consistent thing that I feel compelled to speak about here is something a little different than just the focus of the film. Since my arrival, and especially during my time in Fort Portal, I have been consistently moved by the nature of the people I have come into contact with. Needless to say I have met many inspirational and loving people at home in the U.S., however, this is different. The people I am encountering are dealing with immense poverty or illnesses in some of the most difficult to reach and rural areas of the country. Yet, despite the trials they face each day, they perpetually emit an overwhelmingly powerful attitude that quickly becomes infectious. I don't entirely understand how they manage to do this, yet it continues to be true each moment. I enter their village or home and they are constantly thanking me, though I have done nothing and it should be me doing the thanking (which, I am and do my best to thank each of them, though there are many). It is incredibly moving to experience this over and over again, and I don't think I can properly do it justice with written word, spoken word or even film. It has to be experienced... Anyway, my minutes are running out and I must go. More on this soon.

Worlds Apart

This weekend I had the opportunity to ferry out to one of the islands on Lake Victoria (you know, that really big blue thing in the middle of the African map). Needless to say, I brought my gear along with me. The scenery was absolutely stunning. We caught a perfect day just after a rain, and the sunset off of the coast was incredible to catch on film. A sky filled with orange, red, yellow, blue, purple, pink and a gorgeous arrangement of clouds and sky. I will post some of the stills next week once I get them onto my computer and you may understand what I am talking about. In contrast, I was also able to get some footage of downtown Kampala. Now I can highlight the beauty of the Kampala traffic jam. Boraboras and people weaving in and out of cars and taxis of downtown compared to the calm serenity of the island: the two settings could not be more different.

I depart for Fort Portal today with Peter. I am very excited about this leg of the journey (as this is where I lived previously), but also, the projects underway there have wonderful intentions and I cannot wait to meet with the people involved with them. Of course, the Ruwenzori Mountains lie there as well, and perhaps I can get some footage at Kibali Forest of some chimps (though, they are elusive). The beauty here is so incredible I could very easily make a travel promotional commercial for Uganda, and to be honest, I would whole-heartedly recommend it to everyone.

Onward To Fort Portal

I think it is safe to say I have a bit more of an understanding of Kampala (though still far from competent and it is still very easy to get lost). It is a big city with a surplus of people, taxis, boraboras and everything in between. I have been doing some basic shooting of landscapes and scenery this week before I delve into the interviews. I decided it would be much better to get a firmer grasp on the culture and the people before I solidify the questions that I want to ask. After just under a week, that seems to have been a good idea. Having spent time with many local people this week, I already have a different understanding of what it means to be Ugandan. Granted, this still falls extremely short of really understanding the values and perspectives of another culture, and arguably that is impossible to attain as an outsider. Nevertheless, the week spent relating with others has been great, and I am ready to move on to travelling to the sites where I will be filming.

On Monday, Peter and I will travel to Fort Portal to meet with an old friend, Fr. Silvino, at a school outside of the town to look into the education side of Uganda. We will also travel to the AIDS clinic at Virika, where we will meet Sr. Fredriana Kyegote to film there to gain some insight into the AIDS epidemic and be able to speak with those living with HIV. I feel that this will be a very productive week. However, at the same time I know that this can be very emotional for those involved, so I will have to be very cautious and respectful of the stories being shared. Let's hope for the best.

The UG Experience

"Joshua! Welcome to the U.G.!" These were the first words spoken to me as I arrived in Uganda a few days ago by my good friend Peter. Arriving in the Entebbe airport, attaining a visa, and hopping in the car to make the drive to Kampala (the capitol of Uganda) after a 20 hour flight was a bit hazy, but my adrenaline pushed me through, excited to catch up with an old friend and talk about the quickly changing country. I am staying at Xavier House, the Jesuit residence here outside of Kampala in Nsambya for at least the next two weeks before I make a trip to Fort Portal (about 5 hours west of here near the Ruwenzori Mountains).

The streets are jammed with taxis, cars and boraboras (motorcycles that serve as taxis: just jump on, hold on and hope for the best). Kampala has grown over the years and is a large, bustling city, and proves to be very confusing due to the absence of street signs. Luckily, Peter has the week off to show me around until I get my bearings. I did my best to take note of the route into the city, however, on our first trip in, Peter tested me by asking how I would get home from where we were standing. My honest answer was, "I wouldn't." However, it is only my second day in the city, so I am sure my familiarity with my surroundings will come with time.

Time is an entirely different idea here. We are ruled by the clock in the US, and here, it is anything but that. Here, time is more of a suggestion or a possibility. When someone says, "I will meet you at 1pm, it may end up being 3pm before you meet. Yet, it is not rude. It just happens, and one must be patient. Part of this is obviously due to transportation difficulties with traffic and roads. But, it seems as though people are not stressed by the rigidity of time here. Patience is the key. This alone, would be a wonderful change for the US: not to neglect time, but to accept the value of patience... in all things.

I am excited to begin filming tomorrow, and hope that the beginnings of this project will begin to take their course. I do not want to force too much of a label on the direction of the film too early, as much of what I have already seen here has been very different than my previous assumptions. So, my strategy for now is to listen. To hear the stories that people are telling, and from that, begin to search for the thread that binds us together. I know that I have much to learn here, and I am sure that others do as well.