Uganda: Eric, the king of education

Laura, Hannah and Eric outside the best Chapati company in (well, it used to be the world, but now it's just the local area).

We got hooked up with the Ciyota guys in Kyangwali because of Laura's friend Eric Glustrom. Eric runs a non-profit in Uganda called Educate! with an exclamation point. You have to say it really excited.

We meet Eric our first day in Africa. He's tall, lanky, smiling. He's 25, but he seems simultaneously much younger and much older than that. Younger because his mannerisms somehow haven't acquired that cocky, cynical attitude I associate with a lot of 25-year-old guys. Older because I don't know anyone this age with this kind of vision for the future.

Eric's phone rings constantly while we are with him in Kampala. "What's going on?" he asks every time. This is because for Eric, something is always going on--or, rather, about 50 things are always going on. The first graduate of the prestigious African Leadership Institute (and graduate of Educate!) is coming home this weekend. Benson is getting ready to travel to Kenya for a leadership training and wants to meet up in Kampala. The country director of Educate! is resigning, and her replacement is being trained. The new Educate! staff is visiting Kyangwali and receiving orientation. And three girls from the States are coming for a couple weeks to visit.

Eric is famous in Kyangwali.They've even written a song about him. The lyrics go: "Eric, the founder of educate! Eric, the king of education! Eric, who's kind and good to everyone! Long live King Eric!"

Educate! started in Kyangwali, when Eric met a teenager with no future prospects and realized he had enough money in his pocket to sponsor the guy's education for the next year. Educate! began as a sponsorship program and then morphed into a program that not only sent kids to school, but put them through a two-year leadership course with a local mentor. So when the kid finishes high school, they don't just have a brain filled with the chemistry and grammar rules that they've memorized by rote, but they have a framework for tackling the issues they face in their own communities: Poverty, violence, disease. Educate! essentially teaches them to think creatively about solutions and to believe that they can make a positive change. As a result, you've got micro-lending programs going, small businesses starting, communities organizing to dig water wells.

With all that going on, if you're hanging out with him, Eric's still not likely to rush off to attend meetings, send e-mails, or write grant proposals. He'll get you a snack and sit down and listen to whatever you have to say. Eric is the one who advises us to not do much our first few days in Kyangwali: "Just meet people and hang out with them," he tells us. "Listen to their stories. Relationship is important."

Which is some of the best advice about the trip we ever got.

Uganda: Who else just loves rote memorization?

Students working on their pictures of pigs, wolves and houses after hearing the story of the Three Little Pigs.

You've got about 40 kids silently staring at you, and all you've got is a blackboard and chalk.

This is the school: There are two buildings about the size of my local coffee shop, three classrooms, 97 students, a couple dozen benches, and not a book or a pencil and paper in sight.

"Today we begin with subtraction," began the teacher. "Say, 'subtraction.'"

"Subtraction," echoed the students.

"Subtraction," said the teacher.

"Subtraction," said the students.

"Everybody. Subtraction."

"Subtraction."

The teacher pointed to the 6.

"Six," said the teacher.

"Six," said the students.

"Six."

"Six."

"Six."

"Six."

"Everybody, six."

"Six."

"Minus," said the teacher. And on the lesson went. I mean, let's be fair: How creative can you get with all those kids and no resources but chalk? The teachers have been taught in the way they were taught: The entire education system of Uganda is based purely on rote memorization. It is designed to weed out children; it is not designed to teach kids to think. Unfortunately, in the government-sponsored schools, class sizes are usually around 200. Kids in the back can't even see what the teacher writes on the board, let alone absorb any learning and have a chance to move on to higher education. The beauty of the Coburwas school is that class sizes are 30-40, meaning the kids get a chance, at least. And two meals a day, whereas the government schools don't provide anything.

As teachers, it was pretty hard for L, H and me to see so many children with so few resources at their disposal to learn. These teachers simply don't have the ability to say to their children: "Write about what you did last weekend," or even, "Copy these problems from the board."

L and H and I had packed in several packages of construction paper, a huge box of crayons, and about 100 pencils. And one fine day, the teaching was up to us.

From the school administrator's office, we found and unearthed a children's book: The Three Little Pigs. Hay, sticks and bricks were lying all around the school yard. If all else failed, we could at least act it out.

All I had to do was take a seat in the lawn. In less than five minutes, about 60 children were crowded as close as they could get, eyes on me, absolutely rapt with attention.

"Once upon a time..." I began.

The entire time, every single child was absolutely silent (except to answer my questions about the book). Every single child stared at the book as if it were a spaceship descending from the sky. None of them poked their neighbors or started whispering or even got distracted when someone walked by. I've never had a better audience in my life. Together, we all "huffed" (picture 60 children taking a huge, gasp-like breath). Together, we "puffed" (now picture those kids with their cheeks puffed up.) Together, we "bleeeeeeeeeeew the house in!"

Afterward, we distributed the crayons and construction paper and told them to draw a picture of the story. I've never seen a more confused crowd in my life. They just sat there, crayons grasped in their grubby little fists, staring at me. Finally, I said, "Were there chickens in the story?"

"No."

"Were there goats in the story?"

"No."

"What was in the story?"

"Pigs."

"Okay, draw some pigs."

They stared some more. They looked blankly at the paper, set the tip of the crayon on it, and froze. I think this is the first time some of them ever had paper that was not meant for an examination. Finally, someone started drawing: a circle with four lines coming out for legs.

"Great job!" I exclaimed. "I see your pig! How many pigs were in the story? Can you draw two more?"

Apparently, that "great job" was all the kids needed. Suddenly realizing that doing this could get them some personal attention, suddenly every child was madly drawing pigs, houses, the funniest-looking wolves I've ever seen. They jumped up off their benches and basically rushed me, saying, "Auntie! Look! Auntie! Look!"

"Great job! Beautiful!" I said.

Uganda: Strongest people in the world

My body is starting to recover from its Weird African Disease, which means it's back to writing!

Something you realize if you travel is that Americans are about the only people on the planet who like strict schedules. I don't know of any other people in the world who make plans more than one day ahead like we do. Our friend Eric has given us this precious advice: Our first few days, it's better to do nothing but hang out and talk to people. Good thing he said something, because our first day there, our American genes are itching--we want to start a program, write a schedule, "accomplish" things.

Instead, we have breakfast for a couple hours with Benson and D.J.

Benson's been in the camp since 1997--a year before the second war in the Congo "officially" began. I read today that this war was the deadliest in the world since WWII. I'm ashamed of myself for knowing so little about it, and angry that the American media and educational system have done little to bring it to light.

Like most wars, it's complicated, and since there are so many different people and groups involved, I have yet to learn enough to be able to nail the whole thing down. What I do know is that I believe all wars stem not from external circumstances, but from internal evil. And because of this war, in 1995 Benson got separated from five siblings and his parents because rebels raided his village with an aim to kill. He was 14. Then in 1997 he finally reached the refugee camp in Uganda, where he slept under a tree and almost starved.

I picture myself at the age of 17. Then I imagine losing my entire family, wandering for two years in the midst of a bloody war, then arriving in the middle of a jungle, and having a UN worker hand me a hoe and a strip of jungle and tell me, "Here. Make a life from that."

I'm thinking my chances of survival would not be good.

Which means Benson is one of the strongest people I've ever met in my life. Because 10 years later, he was using that same hoe to make about 33 cents a day, then pooling that money with about 50 other people to provide for orphans in the refugee camp and provide educational resources like workbooks so they could try to get a leg up in the world.

This is how the organization called Coburwas--aka Ciyota--started. Just a couple of guys with a couple bucks who needed things like food and clean water and medication and clothing and shoes, who had the vision to choose instead to do something for the community. Now Ciyota is about 300 people who need things like food and clean water and medication and clothing and shoes, who are still working to improve the community. Which is why, with the help of some donors, they built a primary school to care for orphans. And organize micro-lending for women. And send older students to a hostel in a nearby town to continue their education. The list of accomplishments is pretty long, actually, I could go on for a while.

What strikes me most is that these weren't people with "extra cash." See, I'm a person with extra cash. I have a closet full of clothes and shoes, and I eat very well every day. I get to spend extra money on things like movies and Starbucks. When I give money, I'm giving out of my exceeding, enormous wealth. It is honestly not that big of a deal to me to give $25 or $50 bucks a month to a cause.

That's why it's humbling to be around Ciyota members. Because while I eat my three meals a day and spend my extra cash at Starbucks, they get sick and go without medication so they can give to a cause that's bigger than one individual.

You can read more by surfing around at a partner organization's website here.

Straight-up, you should sponsor a kid or two to get school, clothing, and two meals a day. It's like $8 a month.

Self-confidence killer

I feel like I just wasted the last seven months.

Because for seven months now, day in and day out, I've been logging miles...on a treadmill. No other form of running could possibly be less thrilling. I'll take hills or pouring rain any day over that boring 'mill. I've tried to make it easier by bringing Arabic verbs to study, or rockin' tunes on my iPod. But in the end, I'm running hard and going nowhere. Such is the reality of living in the Middle East. No one wants to run in 110-degree heat in an abaaya. No one.

But I told myself that it was worth it, because I was going to PR in my half-marathon in mid-August. I even told the trainers at the gym so much.

No more, my friends. Not after it turned out that, between trails that were basically mud pits and kids that would hang on your fingers wherever you went, I couldn't run so much in Uganda. That was all going to be okay, because I was going to kick it up a notch when I got home...but that was before my Weird African Disease set in. It hurts to breathe when I'm lying down. It's hard to walk up the stairs. Forget the eight miles I was supposed to log today.

I'm so disappointed I just want to cry.

What to do when you've caught some weird disease from Africa

1. Insist you don't need to see a doctor. After all, you just have a cold, right? Right? Even though cold medicine so far hasn't made a lick of difference and that rash on your torso is starting to spread.

2. Sleep 16 hours a day. The downside of this is that, unfortunately, weird African diseases seem to cause weird African dreams. This afternoon, I dreamed I was trapped in a room with about 50 spiders hanging from the ceiling. This is literally my worst nightmare.

3. Catch up on online episodes of "Last Comic Standing" and "America's Got Talent." This one might make you feel like a loser afterward, though. At least you haven't gotten pathetic enough to watch "Desperate Housewives" yet.

4. Even though you have no appetite, force yourself to eat so you can continue to take your malaria medication. Then realize that on your malaria medication, it explicitly warns against combining the drug with any product containing calcium. You have been taking this along with your vitamins, which include two calcium pills per day. Worry that you have rendered your malaria medication ineffective. Google "malaria symptoms."

5. If you need to talk to your husband about the budget, this is the time to do it. Rarely will you have another chance when your husband just gives you whatever it is you want, without even arguing.

6. Blog about it. If that doesn't earn you some sympathy, I don't know what will.

Refugee camp in Uganda: the ride there

Hi, everyone. I know I promised more posts, but then I went to Uganda for a few weeks. So, you got nothing for weeks, but now you get stories from Africa. Isn't that worth it?

So, originally, I was not supposed to end up in a refugee camp in southwest Uganda; originally, I was supposed to tour vineyards in southern Spain. At first, the trip itself my lovely husband's idea: Two weeks, two amazing friends, anywhere in the world. I'd never been to Europe, and little sounded better to Hannah, Laura, and me than hiking through the Pyrenees, touring cathedrals, and eating gourmet chocolate and cheese every day.

Then the Haiti quake hit, and the aftershocks shook my conscience. Two weeks, two amazing friends, anywhere in the world: Why were we choosing to spend so much money and time on us? So we started sniffing around. Laura's friend Eric Glustrom runs a non-profit called Educate! in Kampala, Uganda. He lobbied hard to convince us to visit the refugee camp, Kyangwali ("chang-walee"). We bit.

I usually collect more information about the food I purchase than I collected about Africa before I left. Maybe it was because I wasn't sure what to read, exactly, or how to prepare. Maybe I just wanted to come to Kyangwali a fresh slate, a learner, without preconceived ideas or stereotypes. Maybe I preferred to learn from people rather than books. Maybe I was just lazy.

Here's what I knew: I needed four vaccinations. There were going to be a lot of kids. And some guy named Daniel was supposed to pick us up from the airport.

In the Ethiopian airport, an information-booth lady spied my American passport.

"Americans don't know anything about Africa," she said.

I blinked.

"Yeah, you know, I don't know very much about Africa," I said. "That's why I'm here. Educate me."

"Well, we don't live in mud huts in the middle of the jungle," she said. "And we're not starving." She handed my passport back with a withering look. I gulped and hopped on my last flight.

---

The next day we found ourselves going 130 mph down the highway, packed into a backseat with Daniel and his friend, Immanuel, who describes himself as Daniel's adoptive brother.

"All of us in the camp are brothers," he said. "Because so many of us didn't have families when we came."

We like Daniel and Immanuel immediately. They are in their late twenties, soft-spoken, ready to laugh.

"How many languages do you speak?" Daniel asked in the car.

"One and a half," I answered. This is probably close to true.

"One and a half? What languages?" asked Immanuel.

"English and some Arabic."

He said something in Arabic I didn't quite catch.

"Yeah, maybe I don't understand the African accent," I said.

He laughed and shook his head.

"But I can say 'salaam aleikum' to you," I said.

"'Salaam aleikum,' is that Arabic?" Immanuel asked.

"How many languages do you speak?" I asked.

"Thirteen and a half."

"Which ones?"

He began listing, counting on his fingers: Swahili, Lugandan, French, Keenyaboysha...

"Which one did I forget?" he asked when he had listed thirteen.

"You forgot English," I said in deadpan.

"Oh, yeah, right. English," he said, grinning. "Thirteen and a half."

"Are you married?" asked Daniel.

"Yes, I'm married," I said.

"How long have you been together?" Daniel asked.

"Well, I've been married about a year, and we dated for three years before that."

"Dated--what does that mean?"

"It means you make a lot of long phone calls. Like, 'Hey, baby, how are you, okay, see you later.' And then you hang up and call right back."

"I see. And are you making any long phone calls, Laura?"

"Nope. Are you?"

"No. But I hope to soon."

"Right now you're just calling and hanging up before they answer?" Laura asked.

Daniel just grinned.

---

It was dark before we reached Kyangwali. The settlement is maybe 25 or 30 miles from the nearest town, Hoima, but it takes about 90 minutes to reach because the roads are so bad. I was sure we were going to end up stuck nose-first in one of the pits on the road, but somehow the beat-up Corolla managed to pull through every time, despite the slick-as-nose-grease mud.

There were, of course, no lights. We used Daniel's and my cell phones for flashlights, and there were a few fires flickering. Above us were the brightest stars I've ever seen, millions of them strewn between the (visible!) Milky Way.

I adjusted my eyes, squinted. I could just make out the shadows of children, mud huts, and, behind them, the jungle, dark and mysterious as the heart.