For the consistent reader, I only posted a summary—at best—of my one month through southwestern Kenya. Many worthy stories remain scribbled in one of two notebooks or are vividly retained by memory. Stories of generosity and salvation at a government hidden IDP camp. The love and insecurity of a mute outcast mother and her leashed preteen son (one of many touching and complicated stories at Sister Freda’s Clinic). Meeting an American missionary family living in north Kenya and learning of their life with the Trukana tribe deep in the north deserts (and their unexpected ties in the film business), are only to highlight a few as I reflect on the past four weeks walking down a foot-worn trail over green pastures.
A Maasai herds-boy bowed his head in passing. I laid my hand atop of his head and continued forward. I had made the mistake of shaking a child’s hand in greeting early in the visit. Shaking one’s hand is a ritual reserved for adults in the Maasai tribe— those having passed the rite of manhood (or womanhood) through an annual community public circumcision ceremony for adolescents aged 14-17 followed by a month of isolation together into the bush. Wearing nothing but animal skins, the boys are mentored by the generation previous to become fearless adults under the influence of intense “medicine”. The details are kept secret, and for this herds-boy, he must continue to bow his head in respect aspiring to prove he is ready to be a man.“It’s a form a brainwashing,” Emmanuel Tasur explained the following day with utmost respect for the tradition similarly shared by many tribes in Kenya, as well as eastern Africa. His son will go through the rite next year at age 13.An eastern breeze cooled the beads of perspiration formed on my brow. I easily weaved between the cypress and eucalyptus trees crowning Pirrar Hill. The steep hike reminded me of climbing SP Crater, an extinct cinder cone volcano in northern Arizona, but without the cinders sinking me down. Along the tree line, I sat on an exposed rock overlooking one side of Transmara.
The name Transmara is indicative to its meaning. The area is a transition zone between the mountainous Rift Valley and the low-lying savannahs. “Mara”, a Maasai word for “spotted”, refers to the sporadic grouping of trees dotting the land similar to the spots on a leopard or cheetah. From above, a word for “checkered” would be more appropriate, as farming has quartered the grassy hills like a relief chess board. I spotted the school Emmanuel is building on the slope of another hill and where I played football with the primary-grade students at break.Last year, Emmanuel campaigned for a Minister of Parliament position, but backed out of the race for one of many reasons, including the construction of a primary and secondary school system in Transmara.“I would like to bring hockey into our sports program,” he expressed, but not referring to the common field hockey version. “Something no one here I Kenya could offer. We would be the first.”
Ice would be a logistical and expensive impossibility, but roller or plain street hockey is certainly doable. Emmanuel walked me down the hill from the four classrooms, over the rocky slope soon to be developed into a soccer field and to the future secondary school site.
“Right here is where we could place the rink.”
“Problem is there wouldn’t be much competition,” I noted.
“At first, but I plan to have five schools throughout Transmara, which they can play against each other.”
I pondered the idea. A hawk glided overhead and dipped down the hill blending into the background as a distant dark speck. A small pack of goats grazed just below my position, and I could hear the steady ringing of cowbells further down. As the day approached noon, I watched the evening clouds develop on the horizon and eventually engulf the sun.
Heavy rain fell long into the night. Victor’s bus had broken down followed by his matatu while en route to meet me in Kericho, a small city two hours north of Transmara. Fifteen past midnight, I bid farewell to Tyler before squeezing into the taxi to take Victor and I maybe two kilometers at most to the Akamba bus station.
After haggling down the cab-fare, I tried to sleep through the rough eight hour highway bus ride, stopping several times at towns along the way discharging and accepting passengers until the border. The predawn hours dragged me down as I brushed off money-exchange hawkers at the visa office to the sound of Islamic chants broadcast over loud speakers from a nearby Mosque.
Looking out the bus window at passing southeast Uganda and its shallow contrasting hills of banana palms and eucalyptus against rusted earth trails and corrugated metal roofed homes this is what I pictured Uganda and east sub-tropical Africa to look like, but seeing it in person sends a slightly apprehensive chill down my spine. The cold humidity bites hard and for the first time in weeks, I’m wearing pants on purpose. But as morning turns to afternoon in Kampala, a near equinox sun cooks the air and I wish I were wearing shorts.
"Can you take us to a hotel near a bus station that'll take me to Fort Portal?" I asked a taxi driver gathering my bags from the bus's boot.
Moses, the taxi driver, delivered us to the Amber Hotel in the local commercial district--not the best part of town--just outside city-center Kampala. Even though the traffic is just as congested as in Nairobi with matatus inches from each other and motor-bodas skillfully weaving in between, the air is cleaner, and thus the city is brighter.
“Uganda is a very friendly and safer than Kenya,” Victor restated what so many others have said before.
“Is that because of Museveni?” President Museveni over threw the Amin regime around the turn of the century starting with a guerrilla army of 26 men and since has turned the face and future of Uganda one-eighty.
“It’s time for change. He is on his third term and needs to step down. A man he fought with is now fighting against him,” Moses laughed. Afraid of handing over the country to another corrupt regime, one could say Museveni is forming a dictatorship while also preventing the creation of additional political parties to serve a Western democratic system. But, why break something that’s making positive steps?
My first positive step that afternoon was taking a warm continuous shower. Although one can turn hand-baths into an efficient cleaning process, streaming water does the job faster and is a relaxing pleasure I take too much for granted. Four minutes later, I am dressed, shaving and fifteen minutes from my first meeting.
A thirty-minute ten-kilometer taxi ride brought us to the front entrance of the Ugandan Ministry of Health. Taped to a window is a yellow poster titled from small print to bold:
FACTS ABOUT EBOLA
Over ten years of interest and study have finally paid off, and even after months of legitimate preparation, I have to pinch myself to its reality. And as I sit across the Assistant Commissioner of Health Education for the Ugandan Ministry of Health, the feeling dawns on me that this is really happening.
“Tell me about your assignment,” Paul Kagwa directed handing Victor and I a cold bottle of Coca-Cola.
“In the mid-nineties there was a documentary called, ‘Ebola: The Plaque Fighters’…”
“Yes, I know of it,” Mr. Kagwa pushed forward.
“This is its sequel, picking up where their story left off. It’s been over ten years and we now know where
Marburg hides and Ebola hopefully soon to come. This is a historical time forty years in the making. But beyond that, this documentary is not necessarily about the virus itself, but the human story behind dealing with it,” I explained and continued with the current plan. “Right now, I’m establishing the contacts and gathering the necessary knowledge so when I get the phone call that something is happening in … the Congo, I’m prepared to move forward immediately and mobilize my crew to best achieve our purpose.”
“You know, we shot a one-hour documentary to show the community. The footage from that would be very useful to you. Let me make some phone calls and get this to you. Also, you need to speak with our director general, Dr. Okware. He is in charge of all outbreaks and has been around them since the beginning. There is no better person to talk to.”
And so the week in Uganda begins.
Moses, the taxi driver, delivered us to the Amber Hotel in the local commercial district--not the best part of town--just outside city-center Kampala. Even though the traffic is just as congested as in Nairobi with matatus inches from each other and motor-bodas skillfully weaving in between, the air is cleaner, and thus the city is brighter.
“Uganda is a very friendly and safer than Kenya,” Victor restated what so many others have said before.
“Is that because of Museveni?” President Museveni over threw the Amin regime around the turn of the century starting with a guerrilla army of 26 men and since has turned the face and future of Uganda one-eighty.
“It’s time for change. He is on his third term and needs to step down. A man he fought with is now fighting against him,” Moses laughed. Afraid of handing over the country to another corrupt regime, one could say Museveni is forming a dictatorship while also preventing the creation of additional political parties to serve a Western democratic system. But, why break something that’s making positive steps?
My first positive step that afternoon was taking a warm continuous shower. Although one can turn hand-baths into an efficient cleaning process, streaming water does the job faster and is a relaxing pleasure I take too much for granted. Four minutes later, I am dressed, shaving and fifteen minutes from my first meeting.
A thirty-minute ten-kilometer taxi ride brought us to the front entrance of the Ugandan Ministry of Health. Taped to a window is a yellow poster titled from small print to bold:FACTS ABOUT EBOLA
Over ten years of interest and study have finally paid off, and even after months of legitimate preparation, I have to pinch myself to its reality. And as I sit across the Assistant Commissioner of Health Education for the Ugandan Ministry of Health, the feeling dawns on me that this is really happening.
“Tell me about your assignment,” Paul Kagwa directed handing Victor and I a cold bottle of Coca-Cola.
“In the mid-nineties there was a documentary called, ‘Ebola: The Plaque Fighters’…”
“Yes, I know of it,” Mr. Kagwa pushed forward.
“This is its sequel, picking up where their story left off. It’s been over ten years and we now know where
Marburg hides and Ebola hopefully soon to come. This is a historical time forty years in the making. But beyond that, this documentary is not necessarily about the virus itself, but the human story behind dealing with it,” I explained and continued with the current plan. “Right now, I’m establishing the contacts and gathering the necessary knowledge so when I get the phone call that something is happening in … the Congo, I’m prepared to move forward immediately and mobilize my crew to best achieve our purpose.”“You know, we shot a one-hour documentary to show the community. The footage from that would be very useful to you. Let me make some phone calls and get this to you. Also, you need to speak with our director general, Dr. Okware. He is in charge of all outbreaks and has been around them since the beginning. There is no better person to talk to.”
And so the week in Uganda begins.
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