Growing Up...

Sharon is a beautiful, vibrant 23-year old woman. With light brown skin, dark almond eyes, and a lovely smile, you would not think twice if you saw her modeling the latest fashions in a magazine or strutting down a runway in New York or Milan.

Mercy is a bouncy, lively 24-year old woman. With dark curls and a sheepish grin, she giggles constantly, and loves reading and hanging out with her many friends.

Gideon is a shy, sweet 22-year old young man. With sunken eyes, a wispy goatee, and a small, athletic frame, you have to lean in to hear his quiet voice. He told me he’s certain that Brazil is going to win the World Cup.


Above: Sharon and Mercy at the IDI clinic

All three are kind, smart young people around my age. We deal with many of the same pressures and issues: fights with friends, impressing the opposite sex, finding work, and most of all, figuring out what kind of person we want to be as adulthood steadily approaches.

There’s only one major difference: Sharon, Mercy and Gideon are trying to do all that while living with the HIV virus.

Once a week, the Infectious Disease Institute holds a clinic specifically for young adults, ages 16-24. These patients receive medication, and listen to workshops focusing on, among other things, health and well-being, computer skills, and business acumen. Peer counselors are on hand to discuss HIV-related issues with the patients. A staff member told me that up to 100 young people come each week for the clinic.

Speaking with them, I was struck by how similar we are. Sharon spoke glowingly about her loving parents that support her every decision. Gideon and I watched a World Cup game on television and discussed how best to convince a pretty girl to go on a date with you. Mercy told me that she often feels bad about having to choose to hang out with one group of friends over another.

And yet, I simply cannot comprehend the dilemmas and obstacles my three new friends face. For Sharon, coming to the clinic is extremely difficult while holding a job, as she can’t tell her boss about her positive status or she will be fired. Attending school, while regularly visiting the clinic and taking invasive drugs, is extraordinarily hard. Finding a boyfriend or girlfriend is even tougher. These young people yearn for a partner, and know that they must disclose the fact that they are HIV positive, but dread having someone they like leave them. A youth counselor named Rachel told me that many couples do try and stay together even if one person is HIV positive, but there are no guarantees.

Gideon’s story is perhaps the most tragic. He moved to Kampala three months ago to find work, living with friends of his former guardians back home in a small village on the Ugandan-Congo border. After being verbally and physically abused by his new landlords, he moved out. One month ago, Gideon discovered he is HIV positive. Now, living alone in a tiny apartment without running water or electricity, he has no money and not a single friend in Kampala. What money he does make comes from selling meat on a skewer. He has no one to confide in, no one to trust.

After telling me his story, Gideon asked for my advice. I was speechless.

Growing up is hard. My peers and I continue to get older and work through the pains and obstacles brought on by maturity. It’s often difficult to know if you’re making the right decision, who you can rely on, and what’s best for your future.

Sharon, Mercy and Gideon deal with the same issues. But they also do daily battle with the HIV virus and the pain that it brings physically, mentally, and emotionally.

I can’t even imagine.

Nsenene!

"It's such a small world!"

This is a phrase we say quite often, when we run into a old acquaintance in a bar, or we have common friends on facebook, or we meet someone whose parents know our parents.

Well, I am now convinced that it is, in fact, a really small world. On my first day in Kampala, I ran into Miriam Schwartz. If that name sounds familiar to some of my high school friends, it should! Miriam was three years older than me at Georgetown Day School, home of the Mighty Hoppers (our fearsome mascot). Turns out, she had been working at IDI, the clinic where I am, for the past year. I can't tell you how reassuring it was to see a familiar face on that first day on a strange, new continent.

Unfortunately, Miriam had to leave Uganda a few days ago to return to the U.S. and finish medical school. To celebrate her last night, Miriam, my colleague Angelina, and I went out to eat traditional Ugandan pork, a delicacy here. As we were sitting at our table, a street vendor ambled up to us holding a big bucket.

"Yes! You have to try these!" Miriam squealed when she saw him.

"What are they?" I asked, hesitantly.

"Nsenene," she said, as Miriam and Angelina could barely contain their laughter.

I peered into the bucket. Inside were hundreds, if not thousands, of dead grasshoppers. I shuddered. No way was I putting one of those in my mouth. While I don't think of myself as overly cautious, let's just say I was in no hurry to eat a hopper.

Miriam took my hand and plunged it into the bucket, ordering me to grab a few nsenene. I relented, and picked up a little one. It felt airy and frail in my hand. I peered at my future meal, and unnervingly, the eyes of the dead hopper peered back at me!

Cringing, I looked at my two friends and gulped. I put the dead insect in my mouth. It was... not bad! It crunched like a potato chip, and was a bit salty. Miriam laughed and then popped a grasshopper in her mouth. I swallowed the nsenene, and the vendor asked if I wanted to buy a whole bag. Nope, one was enough for me, thanks.

Think it's a small world when you run into a friend from college at a bar in the west village? Last weekend, there were two Mighty hoppers eating hoppers in Kampala!!

USA!!!

A quick note about the World Cup and the USA's thrilling victory to win their group and advance to the elimination round.

It's a given that we Americans don't really appreciate "the beautiful game." True, we ALL play until we are about 12 years old (I still miss those orange slices), and then every four years, become patriotic and root on our boys in the World Cup. But unlike the rest of the world, most of us think of true football as a fun, once-every-four-years respite from our normal sporting schedule. Think about it. If you saw a professional soccer game on television, and the Brewers were playing the Pirates in June, which one would you watch?

Of course, for most of the rest of the world, football is life. And that's what I have witnessed in Africa over the past week. Every night, people of all sizes and colors gather at the local bars to watch the World Cup. It's the best conversation starter there is; no matter who I'm talking to, if I ask who their team is, we instantly become friends. Ugandans in particular are passionate about the game. One Ugandan friend told me that if his home nation makes the World Cup, which it has never done, he can die happy. Nothing else matters. And Red Sox fans call themselves intense.

Tonight, about 25 Americans gathered at a bar in Kampala to watch USA take on Algeria. We were on the edge of our seats for 91 minutes, and when Landon Donovan poked home the game-winner, the place exploded. We hugged and kissed, drank and danced. In other words, we acted like non-Americans.



Heavily breathing, with a beer poured on my head, I escaped the bar and stepped outside to catch my breath. A Ugandan was standing outside. He looked at me, in my U.S. soccer jersey, and laughed. "Now don't you Americans see why it's the best game in the world?" he asked.

Yup, I think I got it.

An Introduction to Uganda

When I think of my first few days in Kampala, my initial sentiments towards the city can be summed up in a greeting used by most of the Ugandans that I have encountered. Upon meeting someone from Kampala, they normally ask where I come from. “United States,” I tell them. “You’re welcome,” they respond with a smile.

Greeted this way for the first time, I looked around uneasily, trying to figure out what the local had done to help me and what I had done to give the impression that I was offering thanks. But Ugandans mean it literally. They want me to know that I am welcome in their country, their home, and from the moment I set foot in Uganda, I have felt that way. Ugandans are warm and cordial. Despite widespread poverty across the country, the scourge of infectious diseases like HIV/AIDS, malaria and tuberculosis, they are a people that smile. A lot. They smile when discussing the weather (which has been good so far), and they smile when discussing football (obsession is a severe understatement when discussing how Africans feel about the World Cup). People offer directions on the street, children wave hello and there is a general feeling of congeniality in the air that home often lacks. Could this be because they see a mzungu (white person) and think that I have money to spare? Of course. But there is no denying that the Ugandan people are a friendly lot.

They are also proud. Ugandan men and women take incredible pride in their appearance. The men wear dress shirts, dark pants and shined shoes to work. Women either wear professional outfits, or beautiful traditional robes. The garments hint at a burgeoning middle class in Kampala. There is truly a banking and telecommunications revolution taking place. There is a bank on every corner, and everyone, and I mean everyone, has a cell phone. But smart dressers are not confined to the metropolis. On a trip to the Kiboga district, I was greeted by men in button-down shirts and slacks, and even business suits, as they rode their bicycles and boda-bodas (motorized scooters) down dusty roads. They live in communities mired in poverty, yet choose to wear hot, formal clothes, even during intense African heat. Like I said, a proud people.

If the people are friendly, safe and polite, the city itself offers a stark contrast. Keep in mind that I have only been here for a week, and these are just initial impressions. But Kampala is not a beautiful city, in the traditional sense of the term. There are few monuments and museums, parks and open spaces. The Ugandan capital is chaotic and stressful, and can be overwhelming at times. Conveniences designed to maintain public safety – and ones that we Americans don’t think twice about – such as cross-walks and stop lights, tow trucks and traffic cops, are few and far between. Cars and boda-bodas whiz by at top speed, making crossing the street an adventure. Combine that with the fact that they drive on the wrong (read: British) side of the road, and I have already had a few near-death experiences.

Most of all, Kampala is a city in transition. Thirty years after Idi Amin left power, the capital has made a remarkable comeback. There are lively markets, upscale hotels, international restaurants and a thumping nightlife. Foreign investment is booming, evidenced by the growing number of multi-national corporations that are setting up shop in town. Old, decrepit buildings are torn down and modern offices and apartments spring up. Elementary schools and medical clinics dot the main roads, providing educational resources and healthcare to a growing number of Ugandans (although far too many still lack decent schools and medical care).

But poverty remains rampant. Just a few blocks from the hospital where I work, in an upscale neighborhood, is a massive slum. Driving by it, a colleague quietly murmured a warning to me: “Don’t go there.” The political system, while relatively stable, is seen as self-serving and corrupt. Ten years ago, I imagine Kampala would have had few of the luxuries that I am enjoying (I have eaten great Indian food, drank good local beer, and even went bowling). Ten years from now, it will be interesting to see if Kampala continues its rush towards progress, or whether the city, like many of its African peers, regresses.

Still, my first week here has left me hopeful, and the reason lies with the kindness of its people. Last weekend, I went whitewater rafting in the town of Jinja, situated at the birthplace of the Nile River, about two hours from Kampala (more on this to come). The next morning, as I tried to find a matatu (public taxi) back into the capital, I came across a group of five or six children playing by the street while their mother looked on. With nothing to do, I knelt down and extended my hand. Happily, the kids took turns running up to me, giving me a high five, and then sprinting away. I was strange and exotic and exciting to them. We then found a makeshift soccer ball, and began to play. After a few minutes, the children were climbing all over me as we all could hardly contain our giggles. Then, their mother got up and walked towards me. I expected her to be cold; here I was, a strange, white person playing with her children. She would have been forgiven for thinking I was a threat. The mother walked up to me slowly, placed her hand on my shoulder, and looked at me for a few seconds. Then, she smiled.

“You’re welcome,” she said.