Uganda 2023 - Imvepi Refugee Camp
Travel Entry 1 – Fueling stop in Lomé, Tongo. Some passengers deplane, and new travelers emerge.
The assigned travel companion for this leg of the trip sitting in row 11 of the 787 Ethiopian airliner with me, is a young man named Wisdom; yes, that is his name. A 22- year-old Nigerian on the second of three legs on his way to the Philippines to attend university for the first time.
Wisdom shares that this leg of his trip is the second flight of his life, noting he just deplaned from his first to accompany me, unofficially, to Addis Ababa, Ethiopia. His passion is the arts, but he confides that he doesn’t know what to expect, so he plans on trying all sorts of classes. The kicker – when he turned to face me for the first time, I noticed he was wearing a Michigan State University hat. That just happens to be my alma mater. I inquire, “Wisdom are you a fan of MSU, of Sparty?” I was met with a quizzical look. He had no idea of the emblem that adorned his hat.
I shared with him my history with the university, and we shared a connecting smile. Just two guys on a random flight across the African continent linked by a shared story and a BIG 10 juggernaut, if I say so myself. Time to close the trusty laptop – takeoff to a cruising altitude of 41,000 feet awaits. Destination – Ethiopia!
Officially Day 1 Journal Entry
Let’s start where last night concluded. A furious and relatively chaotic transfer of planes in Ethiopia had effectively broken through the façade that I was calm, cool, and collected after a very long day. As I looked at my watch, well aware that I had already eclipsed 24 straight hours of travel, I began to acknowledge what felt like every bead of sweat matriculating down my forehead as I pieced my ‘travel-self’ back together to then head to my gate.
I assumed the position on the next flight – the same exact seat as the trans-Atlantic flight (11L). This time, though, I was accompanied by a young Ethiopian mother and her 5-month-old little girl (see picture below) in her Winnie The Pooh onesie. And, yes, I was able to hold her when we landed, and her mother needed assistance packing up.
After landing and meeting my contact, a short ride ensued to a one-room hotel room behind barbed wire. It was approximately 2:30 a.m. local time when I finally laid down to sleep. I was unaware that the call time to head to the Nile was 5:00 a.m. The alarm arrived, sadly on time, and I quickly pulled together my things and loaded up in the car with the others. I was fortunate enough to sit up front with Robert, our driver, so I had a front-row seat to the early hustle and bustle of the city. I saw fields of sugarcane and tea fields, learning that people like to run through the tea fields because the ground is substantially softer.
As we meandered through the gushingly green landscape of Uganda, I started to give real thought to the Nile River. Was it filled with crocs like the nature shows I love? Surely we wouldn’t be put in danger, I thought. Then I quickly snapped back into my reality – when traveling and searching for stories, the proverbial go-with-the-flow applies. This doesn’t mean that my confidence was impenetrable.
Fast forward – we arrive near the river to meet our guide, Ashiraf, whom I contend looks quite a bit like LeBron James or King James, as I ended up calling him all day.
After having a brief breakfast and a quick cup of coffee, we had our safety meeting and headed out to the beast; I mean the Nile. We jumped in an open-air truck (picture below) and traveled for about 30 minutes standing up. Now, why would I add this detail to my journal? There really is no way that I can do the experience justice, but I’ll try.
As we bobbed up and down along the red-brick dirt road (think darker red than Georgia soil), little boys and girls would run out of their incredibly modest dwellings to wave and say hi to Mzungus (the term for a person with white skin). There is a very deep seeded part of me that wanted to stop the truck and stare into the stories of the eyes within these sweet young children.
The bumpy road revealed goats and chickens and cows that looked very much like Chick Filet cows (very different than cows in Senegal, for reference). Once we arrived, it was time to get serious. Oh, I should have added this tidbit. I was told not to have my glasses or my watch with me and that I should remove my wedding ring because the rapids are so intense that these items would just tumble away into the deep and dark waters of the Nile.
As we boarded the raft, I asked King James how far we were traveling down the Nile – 12 miles. Yes, that is correct. That is not a misprint.
Each rapid level had a name. We traversed rapid levels 3, 4, and 5 with names such as Overtime, The Death Drop, the Bad Area, and Retrospect.
It was fascinating to learn that the locals use dynamite (against the law) to both fish and deter crocs from sticking around the banks that served as their source of food and income. I saw young men in wooden canoes, digging river sand up along the banks. Apparently, river and swamp sand are key ingredients to mix with cement to build houses. Many locals build their own homes and farm their land to feed their families.
We rafted past an orphanage on an overlook. We flipped and collectively dumped into the washing machine of the river, looking to avoid whirlpools that could pull you under the surface of the water. Every turn had another story and challenge to face as a group and as an individual.
King James showed us where he grew up on the river painting a vivid picture with his words depicting the tactics young children would use to figure out if the resident crocodile was in the water on a given day. If he couldn’t be seen from the land above, then the children would run down the hill and jump in the water.
He shared the story with great reverence for a time gone by. King James has a 9-year-old boy, and I couldn’t help but think about my 10-year-old son swimming to avoid danger. I must admit that my version, I believe with my Western lens, would be slightly more ominous.
After a few more harrowing attempts at remaining in the raft as the great river roared, we all smiled and exhaled. We had done it. I had done it. Proud moments of overcoming fears can still occur in great volume to one in their mid- 40s. That is the wonderful and never disappointing benefit of travel and/or of pushing ones self to learn by doing. Today challenged many preconceived notions I had, and I am grateful that many of them were not true.
Staring out at the Nile as I type this, I have great respect for her power and beauty.
I have accumulated just over two hours of sleep in over two full days. I am wobbly, but I am thankful for the educational moments that I could see on the horizon and those that needed to throw water in my face to learn from. As was the case in Senegal, I have met very warm and engaging people of all ages in a very short amount of time.
A soggy good night from the banks of the Nile River in Jinja, Uganda. I’m off to sleep in a tent overlooking the river. A sunrise I am sure not to miss tomorrow.
-Rod
Day 2 – Leave the Nile and head to the capital of Kampala
I know I have mentioned this before, but I really am blessed to be able to experience life from different perspectives and in different contexts across the globe. I chose this photo as the main photo of this journal entry in hopes that it strikes an emotion in all of you. More on this later, but just know that if you’re reading this post, you are most likely as lucky as I am.
On with the day in relative order. I posted a number of images and videos today, in short form, because of connectivity challenges. I hope that this approach has provided you with a taste of how the day progressed.
I awoke in my tent overlooking the Nile and finally had a burst of energy. The type that says I’m now in charge of my day as opposed to feeling the weight of heavy travel days. I quickly got my things together, grabbed a cup of coffee and my trusty laptop, and sat down, looking out over the Nile River.
I hope that as the days roll into weeks and years from now, I will be able to visit that scene in my mind from time to time. A meaningful experience that, even now, as I type, takes me back to the sounds of the monkeys above me and the peaceful nature of the spiritual canvas before me.
The drive back felt a little bit like exercising right after the holidays – you know you want/have to, and you also know that it is going to hurt. The heat was intensely deep and consuming without the benefit of air conditioning. The windows were open, but on a trip that should have taken two hours but pushed on for an additional 90 minutes, the airflow into the vehicle delivered not relief but persistent wafts of black smoke (exhaust) from bumper-to-bumper traffic. It is hard to explain what it is like to desire clean air. You often have to almost settle into the fact that there really isn’t any to consume – an acceptance of sorts.
The unending traffic, though, gave me pause to fully take in the sites and sounds of a Sunday across Uganda. From a live pig strapped to the back of a motorcycle to a young woman calling out Mzungu (label for one with white skin) to me as if she had just seen something fascinating, to a little boy who locked eyes with me and proceeded to show off his skills moving a bicycle tire down the street, the drive was endlessly engaging.
Once in Kampala, we walked around the city, taking in the chaotically organized printer's row, the market, Parliament, and storks the size of prehistoric birds. I so enjoyed the casual conversations with people on the street, women tending their section of the market, and the countless children who came up wanting to hold my hand as they asked for money. Now back to the small child sitting alone that I referenced at the start of this journal entry.
I am conflicted and emotional about this delicate child. A real photographer would have captured this child’s loneliness and fear far better than I, but the image is difficult to take in. I will never know how changes in longitude and latitude account for wildly uncharacteristic responses.
I do know that if I happened on a young child sitting alone near the entrance to a freeway – well, I don’t think I have to roll out any more letters that convert to words of explanation. My heart breaks for this young child who hasn’t been given a shot before the game of life even begins.
The counterpoint would be that this powerful image educates other cultures on the needs outside of their own. I believe that we can do a better job of educating ourselves on cultures outside the comfortable confines of a Western way of life. It pushes us and challenges our assumptions.
There was a woman in the market who wanted me to know that America was her dream home. It was a friendly reminder that the rest of the world is watching us and that our efforts across the globe, if conducted with great deference and respect for others’ cultural practices, can be a bridge to understanding one another for a better and ultimately more equitable planet.
Tomorrow we head out early on an 11-hour journey to the Imvepi Refugee Camp. Let’s hope it is just 11 hours, but if it isn’t, then it just means that more stories are meant to reveal themselves.
I bid you a respectful good night from a contemplative storyteller blessed to be your guide through Uganda this week.
-Rod
Day 3 – Travel to Imvepi Refugee Camp
Journaling on a travel day can go one of two ways – either the sights and sounds fill me with wonder, or I risk becoming immune to the filmstrip playing similar scenes every other kilometer. I find that I am thinking about my trip to Senegal last year. My eyes had never seen a world so different than my own. I am now used to the scenes playing out before me. It isn’t a rattling shock wave of cultural differences that I feel today.
If I had to put my finger on it, I would say it is a respectful understanding that I feel. Just because I see little kids playing with sticks or nothing at all doesn’t mean that their understanding of their own environment is interlaced with the pictures and past experiences in my head.
We are seduced in the West to think that we have figured out the path to a happy and healthy existence. On many accounts, that might well be the case. But I have to wonder if we have somehow bypassed ourselves in search of new and improved ways of manipulating the finite amount of time we have on this planet.
Last night I learned that there was a sauna and steam room for guests. I decided this might be a nice close to my day. When I walked into the sauna, I was number 15. There were 13 Ugandans and two Mzungus (one was me). I had walked into the middle of a passionate discussion that one might actually label as a debate. The participants were strong in their respective opinions yet respectful to give each that wanted the floor to provide their perspective(s).
The power of community was as powerful as voice and representation. I will speak for myself, but the echo chambers back home keep experiences like this at bay. I am not sure it helps us grow and understand others.
I am a pent-up bottle of curiosity wondering what the countless children whom we pass are thinking when we exchange a gaze – do they look in wonder, or are our respective lenses so different that novelty labels us both?
I have been writing this journal entry on and off during the day, trying to keep my focus on something other than the endless roads. At this point, the sun has set on a very long day (we are still driving after leaving 12 hours ago) filled with a couple of fuel stops to break up the constant bobbing up and down from impassable roads by Western standards. I just stopped for dinner in a bustling town about 90 minutes from the camp. Goat stew and local vegetables accompanied the discussion of the educational and political challenges of implementation across the country. The power went out during the middle of the meal for about 10 minutes, and we never missed a beat. Power insecurity is a way of life in the developing world and a reminder of the wealth of resources the West truly enjoys. I am thankful for the conversation and engagement with locals. Always a rewarding and rejuvenating experience. It has me thinking...
If travel is the great indulgence of opportunity, then the story is the currency to broker new opportunities to connect.
With each kilometer gobbled up on this journey today, the temperature continues to climb. I hope that my appreciation and desire to learn spike in a similar manner. My destination houses 70,000 refugees with folklore underpinning the desire to find a home that is relatable.
My view out of the bus window presents me with countless opportunities to find a little piece of me in a country of approximately 50 million people. Winston Churchill called Uganda the Pearl of Africa. I tend to agree.
I bid you all a pleasant and reflective day. -Rod
Day 4 Imvepi Refugee Settlement
I am going to call today, transition day, for a number of reasons. I am not going to push the inauthentic button and not share the experience of staying at base camp. I am staying in what amounts to a 7x4 room that is more makeshift than formal. It isn’t so much that I have never stayed somewhere so remote and simple – not simple in a pejorative way, but in a “what do we really need?” kind of approach.
As some of you know, I am presenting my first TEDx Talk later this month in Florida. I say this because the title, in large part, of this adventure, has shifted to “Story Is Our Currency.” Today has embodied what story is and how it can support us, challenge us, and promote community building across the globe.
I am happy to report that today inspired me to alter my Talk to include anecdotes reflective of my experiences thus far. Stories across Africa are rich in tradition, purpose, and reverence. The story that I am exploring here is one of folklore that is passed down
through generations. Many of the stories I heard today have been around for hundreds of years, and still, the reactions are as if locals have heard the story for the very first time.
I want to let you in on where I am at as I type this. I am sitting next to a collection of huts waiting for the fire to start. Tradition is that stories are shared by the edge of a fire. There are children running around looking at me and other Mzungus.
So, I was typing the previous paragraph, and a young girl no older than 4 years old approached and started to look at my tape recorder. Elders told her not to touch. I welcomed it and asked her to bring it to me. I pressed record and asked the elders to ask the little girl to share her name. I replayed the recording for her, and her eyes opened like saucers. I am going to guess it was the first time she heard her own voice. I knew she was more comfortable with me when she started touching my arm hair and smiled at the elders. I smiled and said, “Mzungu hair,” and everyone laughed.
A 60-second encounter for her and an indelible memory for me. This is a small example of what it is like here in Uganda.
We took time this afternoon to visit with three brothers and a grandmother. The 17- year-old has been working on his English through the aid of donated technology and a literacy curriculum. The technology is powered by a mobile solar panel that he brings out from his hut during the day. His name is Joseph Mandela. I spent a few minutes with him and inquired about his surname. He had only heard that Mandela was a famous name, but he was unsure of who he actually was.
There was a translator for his family, and a casual conversation about their experiences followed. The grandmother was asked if the program had been assistive. Her response was incredibly powerful, even if delivered in a delicate manner.
She shared that she was not confident the program would help her grandsons learn to read because the program came from white people, and she was of the belief that black and white people couldn’t get along. A relatively small technology program changed her thinking and provided for a very warm exchange. Impact past 1s and 0s of the tech world, to be sure.
The afternoon rolled into the evening, and we joined a circle of individual families to hear and share local folklore. The first gentleman shared a story about an elephant and a fox. His story took 40 minutes to share. It wasn’t in English but a local language, and still, I was fascinated to see the children and fellow residents react, in unison, at certain parts of the story.
Most of the stories are about animals with strong messages of culture and human experience. Simple and profound at the same time. I am thankful that the translator was a part of the circle this evening. Halfway through the first story, a fire was started to match the closing sunset.
This bonfire did not have smores, but it had an abundance of heart and lessons from yesteryear.
My mind and body feel closer to normal following the epic trans-Atlantic and 14-hour gauntlet yesterday. The transition to a different culture can be profoundly impactful. I am thankful for the immersion and for all of you who have shared in this journey.
A special thank you to the high school students of Battle Ground Academy in Nashville, Tennessee. Knowledge is a journey well traveled, and it starts when eyes are fresh, and desire is high. Never allow curiosity to take a day off when the world awaits your contributions. I appreciate your interest in my daily journals and wish you well from the other side of the planet.
From under the stars of Uganda, I bid all of you a grateful good night. -Rod
Day 5 Imvepi Refugee Settlement
The feeling you get when you wake up and stretch your arms to the sky – that was my experience this morning. Just prior to waking up I was countless cosmic miles away in dreamland when I heard a subtle, but persistent rustle under my door. A woman of frail stature who works various jobs at base camp was sweeping under the doors of everyone’s rooms.
Sometimes I wake up and marvel that I either was somewhere otherworldly or thankful to be home or excited for the adventure to come. The subtle back and forth of the broom strokes immediately reminded me of my current location and adventure. A very long way of saying that sometimes it is fair to remind each of us to smell the roses and to listen to the sounds that we often miss in the morass of our hectic lives.
The morning continued as it had prior – brushing my teeth and staring at the sunrise as the fog was beginning to lift. During breakfast, I had a fascinating discussion about centuries-old storytelling practices that continue to this day with the Director of the Museum of the Future in Dubai.
After breakfast, some members of the group left to meet with the military commander of the refugee camp. I, on the other hand, was allotted some writing time at the center of the base camp. Sitting next to me was a group of story curators reviewing the stories shared by bonfire last night. Their [story curators] mission is to create children’s books from the stories shared. A wonderfully positive sunshine of a soul illustrator joined the discussion. Paul (many names are derived from Christianity in this part of the world) will be illustrating stories this week in real-time as they are being told. I anxiously await seeing the process in action and the response from the children.
Once back inside Imvepi, it was time to start writing my article. Sometimes the writing process is a tug-of-war between the present day and the days spent interviewing subjects. This time, though, I benefited from the unending heat, dust, and the sites and sounds of working in the middle of a refugee camp. I find a great responsibility in capturing the essence of the environment while maintaining the dignity of the residents.
I do have to admit, though, that even as I type this journal, my energy is fading. The blanket of heat that settles above, around, underneath, and behind me is sapping my energy. I am starting to understand the gate of the locals as they, too, attempt to manage the heat.
While I was working on this journal I was approached by a Ugandan story curator who wanted a word with me. She seemed quite serious, and I invited her to sit to my left in the library, turned office, in the settlement. She shared with me that she was sorry for offending me on the 14-hour drive from Kampala to Imvepi. I was taken aback and not sure what she was referencing. She carefully recounted an exchange she initially had with me that turned into group fodder as we bounced, dipped, and dove around the natural terrain during our drive.
The sun, near the equator, is substantially stronger than what I enjoy back in the States. For the majority of the ride, my right side was exposed to the sunlight rendering the side of my face and neck red.
This terribly nice woman made an observation that I had a redneck, that I was ‘redneck.’ Some in the vehicle understood that she was unintentionally labeling me in a derogatory manner. I had thought the ribbing was banter and didn’t give it a second thought. I was wrong. Sadly, she had been holding onto the fear that she had offended me. She even rapped on my door late last night, hoping to talk about it, but I was already asleep. I share this story not for the veneer of the topic but to shine a light on the power of language on our ability to build community and connect culturally.
A powerful lesson for me was that while I thought the banter was in jest, I should have been aware that the cultural recoil could impact others. I just thought laughing it off would keep things lite. I have gained a new friend and learned a lesson.
The afternoon was filled with writing and time with a group of boys ranging in age from about 8-16. A small percentage spoke very basic English. We talked, with the aid of a translator, about their lives and the things that were most important to them.
One particular boy, whose English was probably the best of the group, wanted to show me the ball that they play with on a dusty soccer field. He asked if I would go to the market across from basecamp and buy the boys a new ball to play with.
He asked for shoes for all of them too. I applauded his confidence in language and persuasion. There is no way that children in the West can contemplate the lens through which these boys see life.
After a brief video call home that allowed my wife and kids to wave to the boys (the boys loved seeing my family!) I headed to storytime. I posted a number of videos depicting my time this evening, but one exchange I haven’t shared should be noted this evening.
A young man of 25 years sat down to share his story. His name is Mawa Emmanuel. The first name is a bit of a scarlet letter. Mawa is a descriptor for a child born during a time of hardship, conflict, and war – 1997 was the year, and for Emmanuel, his legacy was written during a time when he had no say. He left his family in South Sudan in 2017, seeking refuge from brutal warfare, and now that he is past school age, he is looking for a purpose, an alternative to his original dream of practicing medicine. I know that each person I pass has the opportunity to pull violently at my heartstrings. Mawa Emmanuel did just that. The pain in his eyes conveys a lost opportunity at a fulfilling life, and he is just 25. I think this is a pointed place to fold up the laptop and seek a restful night's sleep.
I bid everyone a night filled with appreciation and peace. -Rod
Day 6 – Last day – Imvepi Refugee Settlement
The concept of last and the permanence of the end seems to rustle up an emotional salad for most of us. We most likely don’t like things to be taken away or for ourselves to leave a current environment. I have seen it in my children when we attend a high school football game, and my son desperately wants to stay and be a part of something—my daughter who clamors for 5 more minutes at a jump house birthday party. Like my children, I suffer from the what-if syndrome associated with something ending. Travel heightens this feeling for me because the experiences are incredibly and indelibly intense over a concentrated period of time. I have to remind myself that all things change, evolve, and become new mosaics of opportunities to cherish.
Tomorrow we will leave the refugee settlement, and I am struggling to be present as I type this journal entry. I am sure that many refugees experience far greater loss at the last drop of water, the almost-at-the-end ration of food, or the last time they see a family member before emigration. My understanding of the concept of last continues to evolve as I reflect on my experiences here in Uganda.
To force myself to capture lasting memories, I have focused on taking images and videos today. I can’t help but think it is my way of holding onto an experience long past my trip.
There is an image that I have already shared socially that I can’t stop thinking about. I walked into a primary school on the grounds of the settlement and entered a classroom of boys. The students were listening to books being read aloud. I would say that they were being contemplative as younger children tried to gain a vantage point from outside the windows. The photo I took represents more to me now, after this experience, than it might otherwise have before.
When I look at the photo, I see and experience a childlike curiosity from the boys at the window. When I look at the older boy in the middle of the image, I see a look I’ve seen countless times here at the settlement – a strong and necessary representation of stoicism.
After spending time with students, I was asked if I wanted to walk back to base camp. To this point, we have been in our van driving the 1 mile each way every day. I said yes, even though I knew the distance and the heat index (over 100 degrees). The air, which I haven’t written much about, is heavy. Heavy like a blanket of burlap over the dry landscape. Fires constantly burn through the gullies and up the embankments in preparation for the impending rainy season. The result is a coffin of dry air with little canopy to relieve a weary Westerner.
And I am glad I weathered the storm of no’s in my head. Today was food distribution day, whereby refugees are allotted their month of rations—5 kilos of maize, liters of oil to cook with, and other bare minimum supplies. I have seen the images spattered over the evening news at home, but to walk alongside what has been described to be a deeply personal and, for some, degrading experience brings me no words – just snapshots of shared glances and wonderment of my thoughts and their assumptions.
After lunch, I returned to the camp and spent the afternoon talking with refugee students. I am not sure that this will or will not surprise you, but these 16 and 17-year- old students had never touched a computer, heard of email, or known of the NBA or the NFL. I so enjoyed my time with these young men, but I have to admit it is a delicate balance – if I ask them about their lives and also respond to questions, I am inherently bringing to the surface all that I have, and they lack. Threading a needle would be the most succinct descriptor of a social exchange that I deeply enjoy with great caution. As Morgan Freeman in Shawshank Redemption so poignantly said, “...hope can be a dangerous thing.”
I left the boys to spend a few moments with an NGO volunteer and refugee, herself of Imvepi. A young woman of 23 named Konga Rohbina shared that she lived alone in the settlement. Her mother and father passed some time ago, and her uncle, who raised her, passed away as well. Through all of the challenges, she now works with an NGO in education and is determined to live life to the fullest. A special human being just needing a window with a view of the world. I hope to witness her greatness emerge.
The evening closed as they all have this week with fireside folklore chats. Tonight, though, was a bit different. I was taken deep into the
settlement across from a school where the teacher-to-
student ratio is 600-1. That is not a typo. I then proceeded
to the family’s dwelling about 500 yards through burned- out lands mirroring a Tim Burton film.
I first met a local who had 50 rabbits and was very proud to tell me about them. I continued into the collection of huts and saw a small body staring up at me. I have included the photo to the right. Her name was appropriately bestowed as Blessing—a fitting manner to conclude a trip of a lifetime and a lifetime of lessons.
I bid you a final good evening from my hut at basecamp. -Rod
