And I'm rich. I don't think of myself as rich until I'm in a country where just the fact that I can buy an airplane ticket and hire a driver puts me, puts US, as I travel with PK, in the "rich" category. We cannot imagine their poverty. They cannot imagine our wealth. So maybe the native people are not so poor as we think? And we are certainly not as rich as they perceive.
But anyway. During our recent whirlwind time in Uganda and South Africa, I managed some solo adventures where I pretended to be just a regular person.
On this October day, on my little solo journey, I witnessed lumber production at its most basic; was accosted by a gang of 10-year-olds; was saved by a young non-profit manager; got caught in a torrential storm; and was rescued again by the non-profit guy with a miraculous umbrella. Here's how it went down.
PK and I had been gorilla tracking (blog post) in the morning, then survived (and enjoyed, oddly enough) a jolting teeth-clenching but spectacular three-hour 32-mile drive back to our lodge over what PK called a "class 5" road.
We had tea and biscuits on the veranda, then, after making a phone call, PK decided he'd like a nap.
I decided I wanted to walk from our hotel, the Silverback Lodge, into the village, Buhoma, Uganda, about 1.5 miles distant. Buhoma is not a village in the sense that there's a 7-11 or someplace to buy a drink or a tourist trinket or groceries or a bite to eat. It's more that people live closer together and walk in single file to their water source with 5-gallon plastic containers. That kind of a village.
I did this because I'd been frustrated by driving through countless roadside settlements, as well as the huge sprawling lung-searing capital city Kampala, en route to the remote corner of Uganda where gorillas live, having had little contact with Ugandans. I feel like such a voyeur riding in our fancy (by Ugandan standards) Toyota van, just the two of us and our driver, Nesser (pronounced Nahsah). We are incredibly privileged in their eyes. In some areas, children run alongside, hands out asking for money.
But anyway. During our recent whirlwind time in Uganda and South Africa, I managed some solo adventures where I pretended to be just a regular person.
On this October day, on my little solo journey, I witnessed lumber production at its most basic; was accosted by a gang of 10-year-olds; was saved by a young non-profit manager; got caught in a torrential storm; and was rescued again by the non-profit guy with a miraculous umbrella. Here's how it went down.
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| Ugandan school children on a sales mission headed my way. Can I run faster than they can? I don't think so. |
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| Grinding through a serious slick-clay hole, one of many. |
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| PK on the phone as I'm plotting my getaway. |
I did this because I'd been frustrated by driving through countless roadside settlements, as well as the huge sprawling lung-searing capital city Kampala, en route to the remote corner of Uganda where gorillas live, having had little contact with Ugandans. I feel like such a voyeur riding in our fancy (by Ugandan standards) Toyota van, just the two of us and our driver, Nesser (pronounced Nahsah). We are incredibly privileged in their eyes. In some areas, children run alongside, hands out asking for money.
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| Nesser, our wonderful driver, and guide for five days One of the few Ugandans we got to know a little bit. |
To be safe, for my walk to town, I have left behind my passport and fancy camera, but have with me my cell phone, for photo purposes, and a few dollars. With my perky little Panama hat and long skirt, I start down a steep crooked rock-strewn rain-gullied road toward the village. Far-away thunder rumbles. I ignore it. A couple guys are making boards alongside the road.
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| I'm struck by the labor involved in lumber production. I raise my phone to take a photo and am approached by a man who indicates this is not cool. If I want a photo, what is it worth? One dollar? Sounds good. I hand him one of my eight one-dollar bills and take two photos. |
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| I can't tell who has the harder job, the guy on top or below. They have been at this since the sun came up. |
If there's a power saw in Uganda, I did not see it. Or any other power tool. And speaking of power, there is precious little in villages, and even at our lodges lights were dim and generators ran sporadically. Hairdryers? Don't even think about it. Being equatorial, it gets dark around 6 p.m. and light at 6 a.m. There's your structure. Live with it.
Back on the rocky road. Trucks and motorcycles roared and rumbled past, ignoring the ruts and rocks and the kids who leaped aside. I hugged the bank. I wondered why traffic victims are not pulverized alongside the road. One must be nimble. One must be quick. One must possess a safety schtick.
Thunder grew louder. The village still seemed far away. I continued.
Around a bend, a flight of school children bombed my way. They saw a big ole white tourist, a gorilla tracker who can afford $500 for an experience that has nothing to do with survival. They saw a mark for their school-art-project gorilla-tracking postcards. I saw trouble.
There are nearly 20 of them. One of me. I have no small change and only a few dollars. What to do? Simon to the rescue!
This is Simon, age 21, who saw my predicament and alighted from out of nowhere. He selected a group leader from amongst the children, suggested I give two bucks and let the kid divvy it up. This was probably unfair and maybe impossible. But I handed over $2, and Simon led me down the road (away from my lodge, away from the bewildered school children, and toward the village.)
Simon insisted that I must see his office, which he says is "right down the road." We walk and walk. The thunder is now alarming and the sky is charcoal. I feel obligated, and, let's face it, I'm rotten at saying NO. I'm worried about getting caught in a hard rain at least a mile from "home". And I know that PK will be worried. Right now, I know, he is looking at the sky and muttering, 'Where the hell is she?"
"I need to get back," I say. "My husband is waiting."
"It is just right here," he motions ahead. I don't see anything that looks office-like. We continue. Another five minutes and we've arrived. A few women sit in the grass, but flee inside as sprinkles begin. One is his grandmother, who seems ancient. I ask Simon if he knows her age. "I think she's 55," he says.
My eyes grow wide and I clam up. Fifty-five! We enter his office, which adjoins, it appears, his family's home. Both are typically small and dark, windowless.
Thunder grew louder. The village still seemed far away. I continued.
Around a bend, a flight of school children bombed my way. They saw a big ole white tourist, a gorilla tracker who can afford $500 for an experience that has nothing to do with survival. They saw a mark for their school-art-project gorilla-tracking postcards. I saw trouble.
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| The children are proud of their artwork and I am appreciative. As I reach out to take one for a closer look (bad idea!) every child piles his or her postcard into my hands. They are not going away. |
This is Simon, age 21, who saw my predicament and alighted from out of nowhere. He selected a group leader from amongst the children, suggested I give two bucks and let the kid divvy it up. This was probably unfair and maybe impossible. But I handed over $2, and Simon led me down the road (away from my lodge, away from the bewildered school children, and toward the village.)
"I need to get back," I say. "My husband is waiting."
"It is just right here," he motions ahead. I don't see anything that looks office-like. We continue. Another five minutes and we've arrived. A few women sit in the grass, but flee inside as sprinkles begin. One is his grandmother, who seems ancient. I ask Simon if he knows her age. "I think she's 55," he says.
My eyes grow wide and I clam up. Fifty-five! We enter his office, which adjoins, it appears, his family's home. Both are typically small and dark, windowless.
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| Simon is so proud. Behind him is a list of projects the nonprofit aims to fund. Goals include harvesting rainwater, building a gravity water scheme, planting trees, vegetable gardening, providing mama kits, and more. I sign the guest book and make a $5 donation. Terrible, but that's all I have with me. Later, back in Oregon, I am emailed a heartfelt thank you for my" generosity." I wish I could send money, but I don't know how. |
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| Here's the organizational chart for the nonprofit, which appears to be named the Environmental and Health Concern Organization. |
By now the malevolent sky is hurling rain from shipping containers and Simon continues to ramble. I cut him off insisting, "I really must go now. If you have an umbrella, I would like to borrow it and drop it off here in the morning."
He disappears to see about an umbrella, but alas. Despite the fact that the village is smack in the center of a tropical rain forest, the family doesn't own one. I wave and rush onto the road and charge up the hill, water parting around my ankles. I protect my cell phone as much as possible, hence no photos of the rising tide in the road ruts, the pelting sheets of rain, the darkness. This is a serious sideways downpour. rivaling any hard rain I've experienced in Oregon.
I lean into the wind and rain, and my Panama hat has sprung a leak. I hear shouting.
He disappears to see about an umbrella, but alas. Despite the fact that the village is smack in the center of a tropical rain forest, the family doesn't own one. I wave and rush onto the road and charge up the hill, water parting around my ankles. I protect my cell phone as much as possible, hence no photos of the rising tide in the road ruts, the pelting sheets of rain, the darkness. This is a serious sideways downpour. rivaling any hard rain I've experienced in Oregon.
I lean into the wind and rain, and my Panama hat has sprung a leak. I hear shouting.
It's Simon. He's running toward me. This is odd because I left him behind in his office. AND he has a huge umbrella! Apparently, he has sprinted to the village, borrowed an umbrella, and raced up a short cut to shelter me. He swings in beside me, unfurls the umbrella and up we go, now using the center of the road as the roadsides have become growling rock tumblers.
Ten minutes later, I arrived at the lodge where PK, as I expected, was distressed. I am soaked and chilly, and stand by as the lodge shower runs for five minutes for the water to become at least tepid, then step in to wash off the mud and begin to digest my experience.
Two months later, I'm still thinking about it. I'm sorry that PK had to fret about me, as I would have about him, if he'd disappeared for an hour during a significant storm in a strange place. But I'm glad about everything else.
Especially the kindness and concern that one human being, the young and earnest Simon, showed for another, the older and more vulnerable me. Take a look at this kind face again, then consider— He is Uganda. Without a walk in the rain, I never would have known.
Ten minutes later, I arrived at the lodge where PK, as I expected, was distressed. I am soaked and chilly, and stand by as the lodge shower runs for five minutes for the water to become at least tepid, then step in to wash off the mud and begin to digest my experience.
Especially the kindness and concern that one human being, the young and earnest Simon, showed for another, the older and more vulnerable me. Take a look at this kind face again, then consider— He is Uganda. Without a walk in the rain, I never would have known.
