progress shmogress

As I sit here, looking out the window of my bedroom, there is a pole for electricity going up in the garden. The Chinese are here—about three of them from the CPCC power project, all dressed in their navy jumpsuits, brown work boots and grey baseball caps. Museveni has been true to his word. Electricity is being brought to Karamoja.

 When the workmen first came to our mission and asked about setting up the poles, I had the opportunity to talk to one of the hired drivers. He was Ugandan and had lived in Kampala his whole life. He asked me earnestly how in the world I managed to live up here with the Karimojong. “The Karimojong…” he spit out the word in disgust “they are only animals! How can they use this electricity?” I wasn’t shocked by his words because I have heard similar things from people down-country, but I was still deeply offended. I felt like retorting with a snide remark about who the real animal was. But instead I simply asked him if he had ever tried to get to know them. “No, they will kill me with their spears!” he responded. I then coldly asked him how it was that I had made friends with Karimojong people without being speared. “Ah! That is because you are mzungu and they want you to give them money!” he said with a smirk. Good grief! Why do people have to be so darn prejudiced? This is exactly the kind of mindset that has kept Karamoja behind the eight ball since the very beginning. No wonder it’s the Chinese actually putting up the power lines.

                I don’t really know how they do it, these Chinese. They speak very little English which makes communication with us, not to mention with the men they hire, very difficult. But somehow, it doesn’t seem to hinder their work. I am told they pay exorbitant prices to local people, men and women, to dig the holes and such. Last week, the holes were dug, about ten feet deep each. Yesterday, the trucks came with the poles and all day we heard the “one, two, three, GO!” of the Chinese providing direction to the hired men. To the regular count, the men pulled on the rope, dragged the treated poles off the truck and lugged them to their corresponding holes. Today, the same shout of “one, two, three, GO!” is heard all over Nakaale as they travel from hole to hole, setting the poles upright and filling in the dirt. I don’t think the power will actually be connected for a while, but for now at least, there are definite signs of progress. Karamoja is slowly catching up.

Not that kind of rafting

                “Hey look, rapids! Wanna go rafting?” Josh exclaimed, pointing out the window. Unfortunately, we were not looking out at the beautiful River Nile. If we had been, then I guarantee you I would have responded to Josh’s exclamation with incredible enthusiasm. April 7^th 2010, the day that I actually did go white-water rafting on the mighty Nile, was one of the best days of my life. By the end of the day-long rafting trip, I was not ready to get out and return to dusty Karamoja. I wanted to jump right back into the water and just keep going and going till the sun had fried me to a crisp. Mom attributed my enthusiasm to adrenaline and nine hours of direct sunlight, but I swear it was more than that.

                Needless to say, that was not what my little brother was referring to as he pressed his finger to the cold, rain-streaked window of our Toyota Land Cruiser. We were stuck in traffic in Kampala and it had been pouring rain all morning. And the rapids Josh was referring to? They were no less than a torrential river of mud and sewage cascading over the heaps of filth on the sides of the roads. The flow was meant to be kept to the drainage ditches that lined the streets, but rubbish had clogged them so that a foul river now flooded the pavement.

                Uganda is a beautiful country. Kampala used to be beautiful too. Like Rome, she was built on seven hills and if you are standing atop one of these hills, the view of Uganda’s capital city is breath taking. From up there, all of the red of the rusted mabati roofs blend with the red tiles of the more expensive houses, camouflaging their poverty. From up there the Gadaffi Mosque stands tall and majestic, looming out of the sea of average buildings. From up there, the vibrant green hills stand out against the bright blue of the huge African sky. The vibrancy of the colors alone takes your breath away.

But like so many other cities, the skyline paints a different picture than the heart of the city itself. And while Kampala is beautiful from the ground too, it’s a different kind of beauty. It’s a squashed beauty. Everything in Kampala is crammed: the houses, the living space, the traffic, the parking lots, the beggars and salesmen in the streets, the trash in the gutters. There are parts where graffiti, crumbling paint and ragged, illegible posters detract from the impressive architecture of the buildings themselves. There are parts where trash flows through the streets like the Nile, creating rapids comparable to Bujagali Falls. There are parts where dirt smudges the beauty till it’s unrecognizable. It’s like someone smeared dirt all over the Sistine Chapel. It’s still impressive, you just can’t see it through the grime.