A weekend in the rift valley

At the risk of representing my life as one spectacular trip after another, here’s an update about my weekend excursion into the great East African Rift Valley. I was accompanying Scott, who was on a trip to see Luke and Caleb at boarding school, and it was a chance for me to see a different part of this continent. We boarded a 4-seater Cessna here in Bundibugyo and flew out on the one-year anniversary of my arrival in Uganda. The next day we flew to Nairobi and hopped in a taxi for the hour and a half drive out to RVA. I was totally unprepared for what it would be like. We climbed higher and higher, reaching over 8,000 ft on the edge of the escarpment overlooking the rift valley, where the view of the plain several thousand feet below stretched as far as I could see, rudely broken by Mt. Longonot towering up into the sky from the middle of the massive valley. The sun breaking through infrequent gaps in the clouds created a beautiful speckled pattern across the plain as far as I could see. We began the descent down the side of the escarpment, and reached Kijabe, home of RVA and a remarkable mission hospital, about half way down, still perched around 7,000 ft with a stunning view of the rift valley. Despite the amazing views and spectacular landscape, perhaps the most amazing part of it was this: the temperature was cool. The air was crisp and clear, with a strong, cool breeze. The cold blue of the sky was unlike any I’ve seen in Uganda, and I commented to Scott that it felt a bit like September in New England – and that came from me, who spent 4 cold autumns in northern Massachusetts. The next morning was cold and rainy. I again commented that it felt like fall in New England. At a high altitude, even in the cool weather I burned badly in the sun after being outside all day Saturday, but this wasn’t the hot humid burn that I get in Bundibugyo; it was a cold, dry, chapped burn, reminiscent of the feeling I get after a day spent skiing. In spite of the discomfort, I thoroughly enjoyed being outside in the cool weather, as it is something I haven’t experienced much in the last year.

I met some fascinating people while I was there, including an American doctor who has been working there for 30 years, and a British doctor who calls his soccer referee’s license the only qualification that means anything to him.

After spending the weekend at RVA, watching the boys play soccer, checking out the hospital, and attending a wonderful cook-out, we got in a cab back to the airport. You might think that this would be a less interesting part of the trip, but you would be wrong. Nairobi is a dicey place at night. First we realized that the driver had alcohol on his breath. Then a policeman, after seeing white people in the car, attempted to stop us in traffic, likely to try to get some money out of the situation. The driver, probably both trying to avoid being extorted and to avoid trouble for drinking and driving, ignored the officer and tried to drive away on the shoulder. I looked behind us, and could only see two things: the policeman’s flashlight bouncing as he ran after us, and the barrel of his gun illuminated by the flashlight’s beam. After the officer slammed his hand down on the trunk of the car, the driver sped away on the shoulder. Next we saw a large pool of blood on the road. It wasn’t hard to imagine how that happened, as people were constantly running across the busy, unlit road. At the airport, the power went out as we were waiting to check in. That’s right, a major international airport, one of the main arrival and departure points on the continent, was without electricity, except for some emergency lights. With computer check in shut down, we waited as each passenger was checked in by hand, with hand-written boarding passes (incidentally, the woman checking us in didn’t have her own pen, asked to borrow one from me, and then asked to keep it, to which I said yes, if only because I didn’t feel like arguing).

The following morning we boarded a Cessna again for the flight back out to Bundibugyo, my first time making this flight. Right after takeoff I discovered a frog around my feet – welcome to the tropics – and briefly considered dropping him into Lake Victoria below us before I thought better of opening the window. Flying in these small planes is amazing, amid spires of cloud hundreds of feet high, one feels much more a part of the sky than when cloistered in a commercial jet that tears through the air at immense speed. Instead of taking us around the Rwenzoris, the pilot opted to go straight over the mountains, climbing thousands of feet as we drew closer. I’ll admit to being a little nervous as he tried to keep the plane under some heavy clouds and over the mountains, a task which gave him rather little elevation to work with. We moved through a lower pass, and I could look up at mountains on either side of us and see individual leaves on the trees below, and we then dove steeply down the other side, almost sliding down the back of the mountains as the pilot searched for a hole in the lower cloud cover to drop through. When he found it, we were almost right over the border and could see the airstrip, Nyahuka, the Christ School football pitch, and various towns in Uganda and Congo from thousands of feet. It was striking to see how close together so many things are, contrasted with how long it takes to move from one to another. Towns that are a 1 hour walk or 15 drive apart appear to be almost touching, with the poor, winding roads making travel between them difficult. Even towns on the other side of the border look to be only a stones throw away (ok, a pretty long stones throw). We swooped low over Nyahuka for Scott to get some pictures - again a bit too low for my comfort, probably only 300 feet - before dropping onto the grass airstrip. These pilots amaze me. The neighborhood kids were abuzz with excitement over the low-flying plane, and one commented that he thought I must have been the one flying it, since it came down so low. It appears that these kids understand, and attribute to me, the recklessness of youth. (I’ll work on getting some of those pictures from Scott. The aerial view is pretty cool).

Sometimes I feel like I’m always writing about my latest trip, the latest amazing place I’ve gone. For one thing, they’re the easiest to write about. But it is true that I’ve seen some amazing things in the past year. So it made me think: life here isn’t easy. There’s the stress of living in a foreign culture, many, many fewer conveniences, the separation from friends and family, the suffering that is constantly before my eyes. But there really are many benefits as well, including the opportunities to see some spectacular parts of the world that I never would see if I didn’t live here.

Pictures

A few pictures from my parents visit. Here, Gloria is having a wonderful time helping my mom dress up. These kids are fascinated with white-people hair - it's just so different than anything they have ever seen or felt.

My mom and I at the top of Murchison Falls during out travels. Any picture of me with my mom is exciting.

The first and only male lion I've seen here, and it was only about 50 feet away from the vehicle. Powerful and beautiful don't begin to describe it. Probably a once-in-a-lifetime sighting.

And giraffes. Murchison Falls National Park is the only place in Uganda you can see them, and we saw them in abundance.

I'll try to post some more of these but my internet is about to shut down, so time forces me to be short.

Earthquakes

I awoke to a loud rumbling and my bed shaking. My house creaked and groaned, while everything on my shelves hummed and rattled. In a barely conscious state, I realized that I was experiencing what seemed to be a sizable earthquake. It occurred to me that it might be safer to be outside, but before I could rouse myself enough to decide what to do the 'quake had passed. Seconds later I heard rumbling again, heralding the first of several aftershocks that rattled my house. My neighbors told me that they were terrified and ran outside at 3:30 AM. This afternoon we learned that it was a 5.0 earthquake centered not far south of here. Living in the Albertine rift valley, the same fault line that created the majestic Rwenzori mountains just to the east of me makes earthquakes a reasonably common experience. There have been several recently, most of which I haven't even felt, but this one seems to have been the biggest in quite a while.

While I don't think any buildings here were damaged (and I have no information about towns closer to the epicenter), it certainly causes me concern as Bundibugyo district is rapidly developing and larger buildings seem sure to be built in the near future. In a place where most houses are made of mud, you can imagine the damage that a serious earthquake could do. But the even more dangerous buildings would be larger ones that are cheaply built. There hasn't been a serious earthquake here since 1993, so it's certainly not an everyday occurrence, but as electricity comes into the district, with plans to pave the road, it is clear that this place is changing, and larger buildings, combined with little no regulation of building codes - if they even exist - may be a dangerous development. One only has to look at the recent earthquake in Indonesia to see the damage that such an event can inflict on a developing country with countless poorly constructed buildings.

Sickness and Friendship

About half of the team is sick at the moment, with what seems to be the result of contaminated ice cream (yes, we make homemade ice cream here, thanks to the Myhre's cow). It's something pretty nasty, beyond the standard intestinal bug. Though I'm running a fever - and frequently running out to the choo - I've been extremely lucky in a couple of ways. First, this is only the second time I've been sick in almost a year, despite living in a place with different, and more numerous, germs. Second, both times I've gotten sick have been right after someone has come to stay in my house. Scott Will arrived last weekend to stay for a few months, so I wasn't alone in my house all night.

This bout of sickness provided me with a truly remarkable experience. Yesterday evening, as I was curled up on my couch, feverish, aching, and weak, my little neighbor Charity stuck his head in my door. Upon seeing my condition, he walked in and just sat next to me, sometimes silent, sometimes patting me on the shoulder, sometimes telling me how sorry he was. As I got colder, he brought me blankets. As night fell, he lit candles in the room and closed the shutters, to protect me from "moving air." He made sure I was taking medicine and even advised me on what ones I needed - "two red and one tylenol." Soon Gonja, Charity's brother, joined us, and he brought me water and cleaned in my kitchen. They brought my clothes in off the line. And they just sat next to me, caring for me in my sickness.

The care and tenderness they showed me was heartwarming. Because of our respective ages and vastly differing access to resources, there is usually substantial inequality in our relationships - they come to me for help a lot more than I go to them, as there is simply more that I can do for them. That, unfortunately, is just how it works, and this dynamic is a difficult part of relationships here. But this illness gave them the chance to care for me, and their concern and warmth brought tears to my eyes.

I thanked them over and over for what seemed to me to be going so far out of their way for me, but they assured me that helping me in my sickness was not a burden, but rather was truly what they wanted to do.

I don't want to look at everything through the rose-colored glasses of one positive experience. These kids aren't perfect. Last week my iPod disappeared after they had been in my house, and reappeared a few days later, more scratched than when it left and missing its case, after I expressed my anger at it being taken. While I can't be certain, there is little doubt that one of them took it. Those types of experiences are also a part of my life here, and these relationships are not always easy. Nothing is as straightforward as a few blog posts might make it seem to be. But seeing the way they cared for me last night made up for a world - or at least a few days - of frustrations. They treated me like one of their own.

A friend I miss

Meet Mujuni. He is one of my favorite people in the world. A boy of about 4 or 5 years, he has trouble forming words, he has chronically infected and pus-filled ears, a distended belly, and a tiny butt which improbably holds up a ragged pair of shorts. When he has shorts. He sometimes wears a dirty cardigan, sometimes a ratty t-shirt, and sometimes no pants. His infected ears and general state of dirty-ness give him a smell all his own - I can tell when he is at my door just by the smell, and I can tell whenever someone else has been holding him.

When he first showed up at my neighbor's house months ago, he was terrified of white people and would often sneak up behind me to touch my leg, only to flee in terror, arms and legs flailing wildly, when I would turn around. But slowly he warmed up, and by the summer he was a regular fixture in my house, running around like he owned the place, dancing to music, playing with Doug, Tim, and I, and exclaiming "ngeee!" at just about everything. As I would appraoch my house, he would see me from a distance, raise both arms over his head, wave, and run with beaming smile and awkward stride into my arms.

But his story is sad. His parents were very young and unmarried when he was born, getting him off to a bad start. His mother eventually married another man who didn't want to raise another man's child (this is a very common scenario), and his father was either unable or unwilling to raise him. And so he found himself staying with his mother's relatives, who happen to be my neighbors. Sometimes I would find him standing alone in the yard, crying softly. As I would take him in my arms to comfort him, some other friends said to me, "Mujuni is want his mom."

When I returned from my travels in August, after dropping my family at the airport and then going to Kenya, I was excited to see him again. However, upon arrival I was told that he had gone to live with his father's family, about an hour and a half walk away. I was truly saddened to hear the news - I guess, until that point, I hadn't realized how much joy Mujuni brought to my life. But I miss him terribly. His constant presences was sometimes a nuisance, but I love him. So, not long after getting back, Sarah, Ashley and I made the trek out to visit him one day. He was quiet and shy, barely making a sound the whole time we were there. It was sad to see, after he had livened up so much in the preceeding months. For his sake, I hope that he regains the vitality he had found in his time here. Selfishly, I wish he would come back and stay here again so that I could see him, but I realize that it is probably best for him to be with his immediate family. Gonja sometimes tells me that he'll be back soon, which makes me excited at the prospect of being with him again, yet saddened that he has such a volatile family situation.

He is a wonderful, sad, adorable, sickly, loving, happy little boy. And his story is one that is repeated over and over here, where unstable family situations make life volatile and difficult for children.

Instability

A recent experience with my neighbors has me thinking about illness, marital problems, and the destabilizing effect that these things have on children. I’ll preface this by saying that I realize these are issues all over the world, but they have become more obvious to me here, and I think that some things about this place can make them more acute.

I write frequently about my neighbors Saulo and Majili, and their children, my good friends Gonja, Charity, Gloria, and Nighty. Well, when I returned from my travels last month, Gonja told me that his mom was very sick and admitted at a private health clinic. I went with him to visit her, took a few gifts, and a few days later she returned, seemingly coming out the other side of a serious case of malaria. But not long after that she was gone again, and this time I was told that she was at her family home, about an hour and a half walk away, to recover and receive more treatment. I began to worry as the days wore on. The kids were really struggling without their mom around, both from a lack of someone to cook for them and the absence of her caring presence. I began cooking for them regularly and helping them buy food. With school not in session, they practically lived in my house, having no real reason to be at home during the day. I was quickly exasperated at their constant presence, especially as I was attempting to work on med school applications, but I tried to keep in mind that they were especially needy at the time, and that it was a wonderful chance for me to show them love.

About a week ago, when I returned to my house, I saw the kids walking with packed bags. It turns out that Gloria and Nighty have gone to stay with their mom, while Gonja and Charity were going to stay around for school. But soon, they began making a daily commute from here to their mom’s house – they got their bikes in reasonable working order and rode out there every evening, and back here for school every morning. But now I haven’t seen them in several days, so I don’t think they’ve been in school this week.

Yesterday, when I was walking by a large group of women at the health center, I heard my name and instantly recognized Majili’s voice. She was there to see Scott, apparently having some lingering health problems. I was so glad to see her, and hopeful that she would be returning soon so that her life and that of her family could return to normal. However, it soon became clear that this wasn’t just about sickness. Apparently, the reason she is staying at her family home has more to do with her complaints about the home that her husband has provided her and the ways in which he cares for her. Leaving the family alone, or taking the kids with her, seems to be her form of protest.

So not only do the children suffer from their mother’s sickness, they are caught in the middle of marital conflict. It has affected their nutrition, their education, and undoubtedly their emotional health. None of them have been around for several days, and my house has been eerily quiet. That has been good for med school applications (which are tantalizingly close to being finished), but I’ve missed them a lot. I hope that stability returns to my neighbors lives sometime soon.

Why does it always have to be snakes?

Snakes have been a big part of my experience in the last few weeks (I’ll try to blog about something else soon, but it’s an.... exciting part of life here). After several snake encounters early on, I hadn’t seen many in recent months. Then, about a month ago, on the day that I received a package from a good friend that included, among other things, a note hoping that “creepy, crawly creatures” were staying out of my house, I was called into my house by one of the kids, telling me that Tim had seen a snake inside. It was apparently hiding underneath my kitchen cabinets, a small black snake – I was picturing one like I had almost stepped on months ago. So Tim, Charity, and I stood around, waiting for him to come out, machetes and sticks in hand. A neighbor came by, and I decided to show him how the snake couldn’t be inside the cabinet, since there’s no way to get from underneath to inside. I crouched down and opened up the cabinet to show him, only to be startled by a hiss right near my face. I looked up, and there on the top shelf of the cabinet, about a foot from my face, was a small cobra, head up, hood open. I sprung backwards, heart racing – I probably could have bench-pressed a truck, I had so much adrenaline pumping. With help from my neighbor Bihwa, we quickly had him out on the floor where he was an easy target. This is, of course, instantly blog-worthy material, but you will understand my reluctance to post anything about it, as it occurred only a few days before my family’s visit. Luckily, there were no snake incidents during their visit.

Even this story had an endearing moment. Being the naturalist that I am, before we threw the body away I wanted to have a look at it, especially to examine the fangs – it’s not everyday one has a chance to look at a cobra (for which I am glad, to be sure). So I grabbed two knives to use as probes, and went outside to see the dead snake. When little Charity saw me a horrified look came over his face and he shouted, shrill with terror, “Nathany! You are eat?!?! You are eat?!?!” as he saw me approaching the snake with silverware in hand. It was adorable. I did decide to hold on to the snake, however, and I took it to biology class the next day to dissect with Caleb, Jack, and Julia. I bet that not many students can say that they have dissected a cobra.

Just a couple days ago, Gonja spotted a snake in my rafters, which we quickly dispatched of. I don’t think this one was poisonous. While I’ve always liked snakes, the fact that so many here are dangerous has changed the calculations in my mind. I figured I was getting pretty good at this.

So, when Sarah told me the other day hat she had just seen a snake in the rocks by her back door, I thought it was no problem. Just to be safe, I called over a couple of Ugandan men, and grabbed a machete and several sticks and went over to her house. I was a little nervous digging through this rock pile with my bare hands, but we soon found the snake. That was when I realized that I really wasn’t quite as prepared for this as I had thought. There in the rocks was a 5-foot cobra, none too pleased that we were turning his home upside down. I can’t really describe the vehemence with which these two men attacked this snake. The man versus snake battle has a primordial quality here – it is reminiscent of the biblical struggle. They are mortal enemies; people will throw more energy into killing snakes than just about anything else I’ve seen, and there is an obvious glee when people have come out on top of this life and death struggle. They live to fight another day. So, sticks came smashing down on these rocks, splintering into dozens of pieces. Sparks flew off of my machete as it clanged down around the snake. I quickly realized that the greatest danger to myself was no longer the snake, but rather getting in the way of these men who were bent on destroying it.

They made short work of it, but it was a big, black reminder of how precarious life can be. As I thought about the delight people take in killing snakes, it occurred to me that people in the US don’t like snakes either, but it’s different here. Here, if it gets away, it could easily end up in someone’s house that night, which is a dangerous situation with people many sleeping on the floor. There are enough dangerous snakes in Bundibugyo that I think people probably see killing a snake as possibly saving their child’s life. And in many cases, it probably is. I’m lucky enough to sleep in a permanent house, in an elevated bed with a mosquito net. But it was another reminder of the many ways in which people’s lives here are often perched on the edge of a precipice, where any number of small misfortunes or common struggles can push them over the edge. The Babwisi have, in general, little margin for the unexpected.