The Little Things

I shift uncomfortably in my seat, not for the first time glancing down at the color of my skin with a heightened level of awareness. I am no longer listening to what is being said; instead, preemptive excuses and qualifications are already bouncing around my head. “I’m sorry, I’m just a student from America” and “I don’t have access to a lot of resources; I’m just here doing research” clutter my mind. “Why do they assume so much?” I think, frustrated with my having to let them down.

“We’ll be taking you around to show you some of our main sites,” the program coordinator explains mechanically, almost rehearsed, “and you can see the families we give our pigs to. We’ll show you some of the schools we sponsor children in, and maybe we’ll even get to show you Harriet, post-tumor.” He walks over to the only cabinet in the room and pulls out a few documents. “You see, we are fully recognized by the local government.” I feel my stomach clenching tighter in a manifestation of extreme uneasiness; I am almost watching the scene in third-person as the sincere local NGO worker tries to convince the “rich foreigner” that this is an organization worth investing in.

I am sitting in the office of a nonprofit, Adoption Uganda (http://adoptionuganda.org), with a board made up entirely of locals. We had exchanged contact information through a connection at Harvard (actually, an overnight security guard from Uganda), and I had agreed to meet the NGO heads and see what they were all about. I had not expected to have the organization sold to me, board members acting as if I were a potential partner with the ability to exponentially increase resources and capacity. I am hesitant to make a day of this, taking up the organization’s gas money, time, and human resources, especially given the fact that I do not expect I will be able to deliver in the way the organization wishes. We step out of the office and I start to present these concerns to the coordinator.

“Don’t read so far into it, my brother,” the man assures me, “One bit of good can go a long way. It’s the little things. Even your spreading awareness about this organization can really make a difference. It’s not the amount of resources we are able to obtain; it’s the strategic use of these gains within our programming. One new website can secure countless donations; similarly, one donation of $20 in the form of a new pig can multiply to hundreds of dollars worth through breeding over time. One voice can reach thousands.”

Moving from one site to the next, I find myself reframing the situation. The man’s words really resonate with me. Perhaps I had been too defensive initially, immediately closing up to what I read into as a solicitation for financial resources I just didn’t have to contribute. While I may just be a student, however, I *do* have access to amazing resources, whether in the form of a friend with the ability to draw up a quick internet site or a blog through which I can let other people know what kinds of efforts are being made over here. Somewhere between greeting the proud new owners of a modest pig breeding center who are now able to afford school fees for their children and meeting the woman whose life had been saved when Adoption Uganda paid for the removal of a devastating tumor from her jaw, it strikes me that every little contribution really does have the potential to go a long way. I can help a little, and I can help a lot.

I step out of the company van feeling honored to have witnessed firsthand all the good this organization has accomplished and privileged to have an opportunity to contribute as well. We’re going to keep in touch… and I’m going to keep an eye out for the “one bit of good” I can take on.

The last few days of Kampala were fantastic. I managed to make it here in time for my good friend’s 21st birthday, and we celebrated in style. By that, I mean we went straight from our viewing of a Parliament session (reliably a nut house with MPs openly sneering and mocking each other – glad nothing has changed!) over to one of the local dives for a quick birthday drink. I mean, how are people in Uganda *supposed* to spend birthdays?

Made a new local friend, Muster (NOT “Master” – wow, THAT was an awkward day), who showed us the ins and outs of downtown Kampala. He brought us to his local church, KPC central, one of the largest, most well equipped establishments I’ve ever been in. We’re talking state-of-the-art sound/media equipment with a full projector screen above the “stage” broadcasting everything to the supplemental side rooms all around the staggeringly large main auditorium. The two hours consisted of a full hour of African-choir singing with four mic-ed singers in the front, followed by 15 minutes of media “advertisements” on the screen for various happenings in the community and 30 minutes of sermon. “We must excel at giving.” Okay, I’ll buy that. What a ride.

While my Kampala experience was all I could ask for, I’ve had my eye on the North – where I was last year, in the town of Gulu – the entire time. Stepping onto the Gulu-bound bus was a more intense experience than even boarding the Uganda-bound plane, and adrenaline surged through my veins as the passing scenery got more rural, less developed… more real.

Arrived in the bus park to my local friends waiting with arms wide open – what a fantastic welcoming crew. Immediately boda boda-ed over to my friend Shilla’s place on the edge of town for a reunion dinner with her four brothers and mum. I forgot her mother only speaks Luo, so I bounced some of my “you do good work”s and “I like food”s off of her, politely nodding to her responses with my eyes slightly glazed over. So nice to see old friends and reestablish the relationships I had last summer – to just jump back in, no longer worried that these were superficial or fleeting friendships that would deteriorate with my leaving. And even nicer to find that they’re all devout Obama supporters (surprise!). “If you want an African for your president, why not just pick me?” Nyero Dennis for President, 2012.

First days of being back were littered with familiar sights and sounds: Mutual recognition as I pass by shop owners of my old haunts. Children giggling as I greet them with my Luo “how are you, child?” Elders giggling as I greet them with my Luo “how are you, child?” Absolutely brilliant stars that light up the dimly lit city at night. The Naked Gulu Man, who I hear actually used to wear a shirt before kicking it up a notch to his new “I’m Totally Nude” statement (it’s retro). Riding in a taxi with a woman blasting “Big Girls” by Mika and passing a small shop playing Soldier Boy. This is globalization at its best. At its worst? Whatever.

Yes, Gulu is beautiful. But it remains the former epicenter of the armed conflict in Northern Uganda, and remnants of this all-too-recent past are still found scattered about daily life in this community. I accompanied the same friend, Shilla, to the Gulu Psychiatric Hospital where she works each day. In entering the pharmacy ward and seeing her write out medication distributions, I let my eyes wander to the seemingly endless column of checks below the “Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder symptoms” category mixed in with all the rest of the diagnoses. The effects of the war are still very real and far-reaching in this area, and it’s not something that’s easily forgotten… even amidst the warm and welcoming atmosphere that defines Gulu.

I’ve made it to my ritzy hotel room in the middle of town. We’re talking working ceiling fan, bathroom (with *warm* running water!), and a TELEVISION. I don’t even have a TV in my room at school! And it has TWO CHANNELS ON IT! Decisions, decisions. Also managed to “put up” what can now only be termed a mos-ghetto net. There’s tape and string all over the ceiling and walls. One of the cleaning ladies actually came up to me wide-eyed and questioned “what happened in there?” Yup, we’re talking high class over here. I’m spoiled.

Finally, have already jumped into interviews with the locals, making my rounds to the hundreds (literally) of NGOs in the region and establishing contacts to get myself started. I’ve already conducted a few, and my favorite line so far:

“Forgiveness is the best seed in the world.”
- A very wise woman.

I like it. “It’s the little things.” Let’s plant this sucker, folks.

Definitely not the Naked Gulu Man (don’t google me),
Rob