A Single Story Before I Depart

I recently watched a TEDTalk where Nigerian author, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, discussed the dangers of defining a culture through a single story. It has made me realize that I may have made a mistake by writing so much about Uganda's ills...poverty, corruption, and the like...because it may have given you the impression that this is all the country is. What I have learned over the past two months is that Uganda is so much more.

In my defence, I have never before witnessed the type of endemic poverty that exists here, and so when I first came to Uganda, it was poverty that jumped out at me. It fairly assaulted me as a matter of fact...the sheer magnitude of it. It was so overwhelming that I began to see everything from that single point of view. 

I tried to understand why, in a country with an abundant food supply, high literacy rate, and rich resources, people could still be so financially poor. Was the wealth being exported through corporate colonialism? Was the concentration of power at the highest levels of government or perhaps the rampant corruption causing a redistribution of the country's wealth to an entitled minority? Was the lack of technology adoption hindering economic growth? Immersed in this analysis I found potential causes, but no solutions, and worse... in concentrating so myopically on poverty I almost completely missed the beauty of this country.

But I was shocked out of my obsession when I went on safari. The great thing about getting out into the wild places of this world is that their sheer majesty simply cannot be ignored. The beauty of the natural environment is just as overwhelming as poverty, but in a completely different and blissfully positive way.

Walking through the foothills of the Rwenzori mountains and feeling the steadfastness of their endurance reminded me that Uganda is a place of richness and beauty. And this beauty isn't just contained within the natural environment, it's carried within the spirit of the Ugandan people as well...in their traditions, their outgoing nature, and in their culture of hospitality.


And as a bonus, the kids here are just adorable. 

On the third day of the safari we travelled to a fishing village. As we stood at the edge of the lake watching the fisherman tending to their boats, children from the village began to gather around us. 

A little boy of about nine or ten years of age approached me, and looking up with bold eyes demanded, "Hey muzungu! Give me money!" 

I've come to despise the word for white person, muzungu. It strips me of my individuality and lumps me into the same category as every other white person who shows up in Uganda. 

"I don't have any money for you." I replied in an annoyed voice as I looked down at my tiny tormentor. 

I expected him to admit defeat and leave but he was not so easily dissuaded. He reached over and started to lift the flap on my messenger bag, apparently to check for himself whether or not I was telling the truth. I slapped his hand away and tried a different tactic.

"Tell me your name." I commanded with an imperious glare.

He glared right back at me, not about to be intimidated by a tourist. "I am called Isaiah" he replied in a strong, clear voice.

"Hello Isaiah. I am called Maureen" I said, and softened my glare to a smile...deciding that all was forgiven...we were going to be friends now. 

Big mistake.

He rolled his eyes and wobbled his head and mocked in a sing-song voice, "I am called Maureeeeeen." Then he paused for a second, gave me a hard stare and with a menacing growl, started to reach for my bag again. 

Clearly I was not having the adult-in-charge-of-this-situation effect that I was hoping for. 

So I responded with the first idea that jumped into my mind. Fight fire with fire...or in this case, childishness with childishness. I slapped his hand away again, growled back at him, and then crossed my eyes and stuck out my tongue. Yep, two can play at this game little man.

That gave him pause. I was not behaving like a proper tourist...or like a muzungu should. He stopped his assault and tentatively smiled at me, and I looked into the eyes of this beautiful child and smiled back. In that one brief shared moment of humanity, we became friends.

I wonder what kind of man Isaiah will grow up to be. Will he be a fisherman? A businessman? The President of Uganda? He is one of the 35 million souls of this country, a place that defies generalization because it is the sum total of each and every unique individual here.

Every day I watch a sea of people walking up and down the road in front of CDRN's offices...some of them in suits, some in beautiful traditional dresses, some in casual clothes, and some in rags. It would be an easy assumption to just lump them into a category of poverty, but instead I imagine the lives they lead, the work they do, the families they love, their triumphs and regrets. I see these people representing the many stories of Uganda. With just a few days left here I don't have the time to tell them all, but I want you to at least understand that these lives are much richer than just one simple message.