Bethany Caldwell's Blog

She (or he, not really sure) arrived in the afternoon three days before T-day. After our initial surprise that THE best turkey in Uganda was roaming around our back yard, I, being the animal lover that I am, immediately began to get a bit attached. It didn’t help that the neighborhood kids named her Sophie. And it didn’t help that Sophie was so loveable… well, as far as turkeys go. She would sit outside the front door all day, peaking in the bottom window as the day passed. If that same door was left open, Sophie didn’t hesitate to come inside and say hello. Thanksgiving Day Eve I was enjoying an afternoon nap (what else do you do on a rainy day?!) and awoke to find Sophie sleeping beside the couch on the floor. With each passing day her eyes became less beady, her nasty, red, hangy neck thing (my mother has informed me it’s called a “wattle”) became less grotesque.

Unfortunately, as is the case of most tragedies, something tragic must occur. When the time came for Sophie to pass, she did so without a sound (well that’s what I was told… I was crouched in the bathroom plugging my ears). The color drained out of her nasty, red, hangy neck thing and her beady eyes clouded over. With the assistance of a Ugandan neighbor, feathers were plucked, organs were gutted, and feet were chopped. So was the end of Sophie… and the beginning of dinner. 

Without an oven, our dinner options were limited. Green bean casserole was cooked over an open fire, apple pie was purchased from a Ugandan baker, and the turkey was grilled. When it was time to sit down to dinner, the food was unlike any I’ve ever experienced for any Thanksgiving… as was the company: a mixture of Americans, Canadians, and Ugandans. After expressing what we were thankful for, a tradition the Ugandans really enjoyed, it was time to dig in. And boy did it suck! The purchased apple pie tasted like jolly ranchers; and the turkey was tough and incredibly dry (picture the Griswold’s turkey from Christmas vacation). But it is undoubtedly one of the best Thanksgivings I’ve ever experienced.

But it doesn’t end there. 

Two weeks after our mediocre feast the Ugandans that dropped off Sophie informed us that it wasn’t by coincidence that she loved sitting at our door, enjoyed our company, and liked sleeping inside. Sophie had been raised as a pet in the village and was, in fact, quite old (which might explain why our main course was so tough). Since she was nearing her time anyway, the owner must have been looking for a quick buck… well, Ugandan shilling. May she (or he) rest in peace. 

If you’ve ever seen me on the dance floor, you know it’s not pretty.  Just envision a train-wreck of elbows, knees, and hips, traveling at different speeds on tracks of disaster.  However, my boogying skills have greatly improved since moving to Kampala out of necessity; and by greatly improved I mean people are not continuously laughing and pointing.  My increased aptitude can be attributed to two main reasons: first, there’s a ton of live music available to shake your groove thing to; and second, Ugandans can really shake their groove thing!  My immersion into the music scene of Kampala has been one of the most enjoyable experiences thus far.

During my first week in Kampala, a young, hip Rotarian (yes… they exist) informed me that Uganda is where “music goes to die.”  At times I completely understand his sentiment.  As I’ve mentioned before, living next to one of the most popular night clubs provided a crash course in Ugandan popular music; it wasn’t always easy on the ears, let me tell you.  The nightly playlist went something like this: 80s pop, Backstreet Boys, Ugandan hit song, Savage Garden, Vanilla Ice, Ugandan hit song, 80s pop, obscure love ballad.  And who knew Ugandans love country music?  Now don’t get me wrong, I enjoy a good song out of Nashville once in awhile… ok, I’m lying, I despise it all; anyway, everyday that’s what’s blaring as I pipette endlessly in the lab.  But, the only thing worse than country music is Celine Dion.  And the only thing worse than Celine Dion is her Christmas album… played on repeat in September.  My colleagues have great taste in music, what can I say.

Other than being forced to listen to Dolly Parton or Celine’s rendition of “Oh Come All Ye Faithful,” I’m loving the local music.  In fact, I’m attempting to be a participant.  As some of you may know, I was beginning to learn how to strum a guitar before I left (Erica: Greensleeves??).  Since arriving, I have started attending guitar lessons at Kampala Music School.  The school is under the direction of a local Rotarian and often takes in pupils that are unable to pay the required fees.  My first lesson was basically a “Look-what-I-Can-Do” performance by my instructor.  After managing to wrangle the instrument from his grip, I’ve practiced a bit and have mastered most chords, including the impossible F!  Hopefully when I return home, I’ll be able to croak out a few songs in Lugandan.

The Kampala Music School frequently offers performances by their own students and from guest performers from abroad.  I have been lucky enough to attend a recital where all the vocal lesson students performed at the French Ambassdor’s home (where I spotted my first crested crane, Uganda’s national bird!).  The students performed solos and in ensembles for about 3 hours of varied selections.  One woman named Teddy belted out opera songs by the likes of Puccini and Verdi (don’t be impressed… as close to an Opera expert as I am to being a good dancer).  My favorite group performance was that of five men that sang several popular songs including Yesterday by The Beatles (see video below!  And please watch it because it took me 2 hours to upload with this tortoise-paced internet).  Please note that the name of the tenor on the far left is Charles Dickens (I’ve also been introduced to an Isaac Netwon, Francis Scott Fitzgerald, and none other than Barack Obama himself… a tiny baby strapped to his mama’s back).

Live performances are easy to stumble upon in the city and luckily I’m quite the capable stumbler.  I was fortunate enough to attend Susan Kerunen’s concert, in my opinion, the most beautiful woman in all of Uganda.  Kerunen is a 29-year-old from the most north-western region of Uganda and sings in Luo (tribal language), English, and Swahili.  Although I didn’t understand most songs, it was still an incredible performance.  I attended another great concert by the group Afrigo, dubbed Uganda’s most successful band as they’ve produced 17 CDs since 1976.  Sticking to a purely Ugandan beat (many other groups mix in Congolese or Western sounds), this group really knows how to get the crowd grooving.  It’s no wonder that their drummer, Omwana We Nsenene Herman Ssewanyana, is nicknamed “The King of the Congas.”  Ssewanyana also founded another group, Percussion Discussion Afrika which I witnessed at the National Theatre.  A mixture of brass and all types of instruments you hit, Discussion produces a truly unique sound.

The best part of these concerts, however, is when a dance circle forms and all the Mzungus are pulled out of the crowd to join; some are literally dragged to the stage but I join happily, relishing any chance I can get to tame my wild elbows and knees.  I’ve noticed that most Ugandans love the game “Teach-the-horrible-Mzungu-dancer-how-to-not-dance-like-Elaine-from-Seinfeld.”  Any time you’re out doing your thing, you can be assured you will soon feel a tap on your shoulder and turn to see a Ugandan shaking their head at you in disappointment.  The next half hour to hour will consist of more head shaking, detailed instructions, high-fiving, possibly a few steps that look somewhat legitimate, and then collapsing into a chair drenched in sweat.

As I had another impromptu dance lesson last evening, I’m quite exhausted and in need of a good nap at my lovely new (and quiet!) apartment.  Please enjoy the links I’ve shared below.  Maybe when I return home and see ya’ll on the dance floor, looking as pathetic as I did before this incredible trip, I can be the one tapping shoulders and shaking my head.  Get ready to move everybody!

Kampala Music School Website

Afrigo Band Profile

Percussion Discussion Profile

Now don’t get me wrong… I love Kampala.  But after over six weeks of black exhaust fumes, countless piles of trash, loud nights, and robberies (will explain later), I needed to get OUT.  So after very little planning, a friend and I hopped on a bus west.  Just outside the city limits the rolling Ugandan countryside, roaming cows in the road, and waving children began to lift my Kampala blues.  After the beautiful five hour ride (huge tea plantations, fields of papyrus, Rwenzori mountains in the distance) we arrived in the quaint town of Fort Portal.

After checking into the Exotic Lodge (which was anything but exotic costing less than $2.00 per person) we began to explore on foot.  The first point of interest was a large circular building on the hilltop overlooking the town.  This turned out to be the palace for the King of the Toro Kingdom (we left the Buganda Kingdom in Kampala) which was renovated by funds donated from the Libyan dictator, Gaddafi, and possessed a spectacular view.  After becoming a bit unnerved by the guards with guns, we headed down the hill for discovery of other sites: a beautiful seminary school, a breathtaking mosque, and the local library (which included an “American Corner” with classic American literature, maps, and a sign that read “Reading owns modernization”).  After eating a huge plate of traditional Ugandan dishes, which set us back only 75 cents each, it was time to hit the sack.

For the next day we had arranged a biking tour of local villages, forests, and lakes.  Our guide, Simon, met us bright and early at 8:30, presented us with our somewhat dilapidated bikes, and we were off.  After venturing from the main road, we meandered on dirt paths through villages, past huge rock outcroppings, and amazing vistas.  After stopping at a relative’s farm to see their pet guinea pigs (turns out they look exactly like ours back home and are just as much fun… so not much), we arrived at the first crater lake, a body of water made from a volcanic crater. Although the name of the lake escapes me, it was aptly named, meaning “God-loved area” in the local language.   After staring in awe at its blue-green waters and surrounding lush vegetation while repeatedly exclaiming “wow”, we began our forest walk around the perimeter.  The hike provided a closer look at the flora and fauna, four ant bites, and the opportunity to fall only three times (Simon started to keep track of my tumbles).   We climbed up to the rim of the lake where Simon instructed me how to greet the local farmers tending their fields of Irish potatoes, cassava, and millet (“Oli otya!).  We hopped back on the bikes, saw two more lakes, climbed two more hills (I considered them baby mountains), and started the ride back to town.  Now after seven hours of hiking/biking in the African sun with a bike that wouldn’t change gears properly and had a seat that was practically vertical (my bum is still sore), my legs felt quite wobbly and I was seeing stars; I collapsed on the picnic table outside the tour agency.  Trust me, I slept very well that night.

After examining my handy Uganda travel guide (thanks mommy!), we decided to head to a nature reserve about 12 km away overlooking Lake Nkuruba.  My poor sore, derriere had to endure a 45 minute boda ride with a poorly placed metal bar on the seat, but it was well worth it.  The nature reserve was perfect: monkeys everywhere, cute little bandas, a lovely lake, and friendly staff.  My friend and I headed off with no particular destination in mind; after a 7 hour hike, we had visited the small village of Rwaihamba, Lakes Kifuruku and Lyantonde, the Mahoma River, and had been shouted at by countless children.  Nearly everyone waved to us as we traipsed by, reminding me of returning to my hometown after being away at school.  After a refreshing cold shower, the evening past idly as we chatted with two friendly British girls trekking across East Africa.

The next morning we caught a more comfortable boda to Fort Portal where we boarded a bus (which kept playing the same ten music videos over and over) back to Kampala and its madness.  However, after my days of respite, it is easier to recognize the excitement, intrigue, and even beauty of the city.  I’m now ready to face the taxi parks, bustling neighborhoods, and endless jams… at least for another 6 weeks.

If you ever email, message, or call me during my stay in Uganda please do NOT mention one thing: ice cream.  My infatuation with this guilty-pleasure was influenced most by my Pap Snap.  Whenever visiting on a hot summer day, we would jump in his prized, black truck and head to the local convenient store to get a half gallon of scrumptious rocky road.  Upon our return, Grandma C.C. would bring out the special, green ice cream bowls and it was time to get down to business.  Unfortunately, these excursions likely led to my need for the “Husky” size jeans in elementary school…

…anyway, ever since, I have been on a quest for the perfect cone (and I am pretty sure I found it with my friend, Dreussi at the Piazza Navona in Rome).  So upon arriving in Kampala, I thought I had a plethora of new, yummy samples to try.  After patronizing 3 different ice cream parlors, I have sadly abandoned my search.  To be frank, Ugandan ice cream sucks.  The chocolate was grainy; the pineapple tasted like an old refrigerator; I tossed the cherry after realizing I was essentially eating cough syrup.

I must beg to change the topic as all this talk of ice cream is too painful.  Despite my obvious disappointment, many of the foods I have tried have been quite enjoyable… and at the very least, tolerable.  No local meal would be complete without matoke, Uganda’s basic food staple of mashed steamed green plantains (pretty much tasteless unless served with a sauce of some sort).  Posho is another local favorite, a dish of maize flour and water (friends from the Kenya trip, this is Uganda’s version of ugali).  Now like any good Caldwell, I despise sweet potatoes back home… but here they are one of my favorite dishes (mostly out of necessity).  My major complaint with the food, however, is the lack of spice; I have remedied this dilemma with a small bottle of Top Up hot sauce (it essentially can be added to any available food and only cost 40 cents a bottle).  And if the Top Up gets old, there are several Indian and Chinese restaurants in Kampala offering dishes that will make your eyes water.

In addition to these typical meals, I have sampled my share of street food.  Now some foreigners, and even locals, advise against purchasing anything made by a stranger over an open fire on the street.  However, some of the best meals I have sampled thus far have been such questionable fare (and I just keep my fingers crossed I won’t contract cholera).  I consider samosas the perfect Ugandan snack.  These triangle-shaped, fried pastries can be filled with a number of vegetables, meats, and seasonings.  On my way into work, I typically stop and pick up a few mandazi, a fried bread equivalent to our doughnuts back home that I take with my morning tea (switching to tea instead of coffee to overcome my caffeine addiction).  A good evening bite is a roasted ear of corn that my sister would absolutely love (tastes just like popcorn, Rhe, and you can dowse it in butter).

Yet, in my opinion these morsels don’t hold a candle to the top street foods: Wandageya chicken and rolexes.  Wandageya is a region within Kampala where you can purchase the best TV chickens (they were dubbed this because the rotisserie they roast in resembles a television).  After cooking slowly all day, the vendor separates the whole chicken into pieces, adds some secret spices, cabbage, and onions and allows it to simmer for a little longer.  He then hands it over to you in a mysterious black bag of deliciousness.  The only comparable food to the contents of that bag is the indescribable rolex (which I will now attempt to describe).  Now, as you might have guessed, it is not an expensive watch; the name likely came from a basic description of “rolled eggs.”  The rolex man dumps a bunch of cabbage, onions, and tomatoes into a cup, adds two eggs, stirs it up and fries it on a griddle (basically making an omelet).  The egg is then rolled up in a freshly prepared chipati, making an egg burrito of sorts, all for about 40 cents.  After a concert late one night, I was closely observing my rolex guy, Freddie, as he prepared my midnight feast.  He must have noticed my interest because he plopped a lump of chipati dough in front of me and told me to get to work… I helped him make rolexes for about 20 minutes (earning me a free chipati), and he promised another lesson the following week.  I am determined to master the process before I come home; a few rolex stands in Columbus, Ohio would be an ideal way to pay my way through medical school.

All of this talk of food is making my stomach rumble so I am off to grab some grub.  If anyone has the urge to send me some treats from home, please let me know; but I doubt a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Phish Food ice cream would traverse the Atlantic very well…

[I hope Randy and Lori Caldwell will forgive me for this entry.]

If my parents were Ugandan, all of their marital trials (not that there are many) would be forgotten. Let me explain and hope I’m invited back to Thanksgiving upon my return.
Every Sunday before going to church it has been the same scenario since I can remember: Dad and I sitting in the car waiting for Mom. Now both parties, to some degree, are at fault: Dad could be a little more understanding as Mom is preparing our afternoon meal (with mashed potatoes of course); and Mom could work on being a little more punctual (but come on, she’s Lola’s daughter). However, if they had been born and raised here in Kampala, both would be accustomed to “Ugandan Time” and Randy wouldn’t mind rolling in to church for the closing prayer.

My first encounter with the Ugandan time warp occurred my first day in Kampala. My host counselor, Dr. Carol, promised to pick me up at 9 AM to go purchase my phone (a resilient little Nokia that will surely be put to the test: Hider House, you know what I mean). Around 11 AM, Carol rolls up, nonplussed and unapologetic. The time problem extends into the work field as well. I received an email from Eddie, my research supervisor, regarding my first day. It informed me that I should be present at the lab no later than 9 AM. The next day, Eddie strolls into the lab office at around 10:30 AM and asked how long I had been waiting. When I informed him he exclaimed, “Didn’t you get my email!?”

Meetings are almost impossible to schedule. My coworkers hold lab meetings every Friday morning at 8 AM (although they typically get started late). About 15 minutes into the meeting, a few stragglers arrive and ask to be caught up. So the next 15 minutes are spent recapping everything that had been previously discussed. As soon as everyone is caught up, without fail, more latecomers show and beg to be caught up… so the 15 minute recap begins once again. So the 2 hour meeting consists of a vicious, repetitive cycle of the same block of information.

I have discussed the phenomenon of Ugandan Time with a few expats living in Kampala. They clued me in to the terminology often used by the locals. If your friend calls and says they are leaving to meet you “now,” you can expect at least a half hour to an hour waiting time. However, if they let you know they are leaving “now now,” they are actually on their way.

Sadly, I can see myself falling fast into the time management habits of my Ugandan friends. In order to speak with my friends and family, I have to call through Skype, a computer program that allows you to make international calls for free. Due to my busy schedule and the time difference, we have to determine a mutually acceptable time. A few weeks ago, we planned to talk before they went to church (about 3 PM for me in Uganda). At the time, I was out shopping with a friend, then stopped to talk to another, and soon realized it was 4 PM. So now on Sunday mornings, poor Randy is waiting for both Mom and Bethy on Uganda time before he makes it to Sunday school…

As it turns out, I am late (big surprise) to meet a friend for a pick-up game of basketball so I must leave now now… Mom, Dad: I love you both.

After an untimely economic crisis and a controversial health care reform plan, President Barack Obama’s popularity ratings are falling quicker than a Ugandan rain (September brings the rainy season here). Now I won’t reveal my personal political views (although you may have a hunch) as it is often advised not to discuss politics with friends. But I feel it is completely appropriate and worthwhile to discuss the Ugandan view of the newest resident of the White House (or as the ever-joking Dr. Carol, my host counselor says, the Black House).

I have encountered the Obama obsession in numerous and sometimes peculiar ways. Just yesterday I went shopping in Ntende, a neighborhood within Kampala, and purchased some passion fruit at the local Obama Grocery. On Sunday I was at a local sports bar watching the Manchester United versus Manchester City football game (and yes, football to me is now soccer). Above the door to the restaurant two pictures were hanging: President Yoweri Museveni of Uganda and President Barack Obama of, well, you know. During my first week, I was searching in the local market for the best chipati (a fried, yummy, flat bread) and stumbled across a man selling “Obama Chipatis.” Of course I had to purchase one and, although they were made in the exact same way, I must admit they did seem to taste a little more delicious. One of the other Rotary Scholars went to the post office (Lola, Daddy, and Uncle Denny: I haven’t visited yet, but I promise to check it out) in the hopes of sending home a letter with a President Museveni stamp. Sadly, all they had to offer was the big-eared, grinning you-know-who.

Perhaps the most revealing testament to Obama’s popularity has been my interactions with the Ugandan people. When boarding a boda-boda for a rugby game (my new obsession), the conductor asked my friend from New Zealand if he had voted for Obama. When talking to an elderly man at the grocery store he asked me to tell my President that he said hello (if you happen to be reading this Barack, Joseph from Checkers Supermarket in Kampala is a big fan). My favorite Obama interaction thus far was definitely when a rather opinionated woman on the taxi attempted to convince me for 10 minutes that Obama was actually Ugandan (although very persuasive, I’m still pretty sure his father was from Kenya).

As I sit and drink the tasty house coffee from 1,000 Cups Coffeehouse (if you’re ever here and are addicted to caffeine, definitely your hangout), a teenager sitting across from me is sporting his Vote for Obama t-shirt. Although overwhelming at times, his face on shirts/pants/shoes/signs/buildings/bumper stickers/key chains/mugs/any inanimate object is a pleasant reminder of home…

So moving to an African city has made me encounter two culture shocks: one, it’s Africa; and two, it’s slightly bigger than my hometown of Beallsville. In order to navigate around this city of about 1.5 million I can’t just jump in my little silver Focus and go. Nor would I want to… I wouldn’t last 10 minutes before my first fender-bender. So to get from point A to B, I have had to master (well at least manage) the transportation system here. There are 3 main means of getting around: taxis, special hire taxis, and boda bodas.

Special hire taxis are just like ours back home and the most expensive… and therefore I’ve only taken a couple. Anyway, the real adventures begin on bodas and taxis. Taxis are large vans that are “supposed” to carry 12 passengers but oftentimes more people crowd in, especially around jam time. Each taxi has one driver and one conductor; the driver, well obviously, drives while the conductor collects the fare, distributes the “balance,” and directs the driver when to stop. At each stop there is often another business partner whom I have named “the pest.” His only job is to get as many people onto a specific taxi by shouting its destination and then dragging individuals who show a remote interest to a vacant seat. The conductor then cuts him a share of the profits. These battered vans with dingy seats cost me only 500 Ugandan shillings (about a quarter) to get from my current guesthouse to the medical school (about a mile away). There are words written across every windshield, giving you a little information about the character of the driver. Some of my favorites include: The Sniper, Thanks-be-to-God, Praise Allah, and Slow and Steady.

The taxis can get you to about anywhere in town as long as you jump on the right one (tricky at times). If you miss your stop, you can take the taxi back to the main taxi park behind Kampala Road, a huge parking lot with hundreds of these vans parked and their conductors all shouting their destinations at once. However, if you ever do visit Kampala, never buy bottled water at the taxi park. The vendors often fill up old bottles with local tap water and then super glue the tops shut (just like on Slumdog Millionaire if you’ve seen it… if not, definitely rent it). Another word of warning: don’t be surprised if there are some unexpected passengers on the taxis. Just yesterday I was seated in the back of the taxi when a large hen escaped its sack and jumped up on the seat in front of me.

If I ever need my day brightened, I jump on the back of a boda boda… it’s like asking my basset hound, Molly, if she wants a car ride. These small motorcycles carry individuals or pairs of passengers for a slightly higher price (about twice the amount as taxis) but they can weave in and out of traffic to avoid the jams. The name comes from when these bikes were used to transport passengers across the border between Uganda and Kenya to avoid the necessary paperwork; thus they were going from “border-to-border” (shortened to boda-boda). Although they typically save time, I have learned to ensure that the driver knows exactly where you are intending to go because they will assure you they know and halfway there admit they have no idea where Ntende II road is located. In addition, I now inspect the condition of the bike. One night, I was quite late to a concert (I’ve grown accustomed to African time) when my boda started sputtering quite violently and came to a stop on a slight incline. My driver turns to me with a smile and said “Looks like this is it!” I couldn’t help but laugh.

Looks like this is it for this time, too. Off to get some Ethiopian food, a new Wednesday night tradition. Yum.

Kampala… what a place. After some tearful goodbyes and a 24-hour transit, I finally arrived: tired, excited, anxious, and with a broken lap top (hence the delay in posts). After being here just over a week, I’m what the locals call “fresh meat.” And I must admit that I have felt the name somewhat fitting at different points during my stay: as I stand in confusion as to what taxi-bus to board; laying in bed, unable to sleep because the nightclub underneath my guesthouse is blaring “Ice Ice Baby” at 3 AM; wishing I knew the word for “slow down” in Lugandan as I careen down a hill on a boda boda (local transportation on the back of a small motorcycle).

Despite all of these initial misgivings, I have found the city and people to be incredible. It has also been enjoyable to learn the different lingo that Ugandans use and the confusion that often ensues because of my prior ignorance. When driving one day, Dr. Carol (my host counselor and the Ugandan equivalent to my Grandma Lola) almost hit a small car ahead of her because the car failed to put on its “indicator” (blinker). To maneuver out of the situation, Carol had to “revance” (put in reverse; opposite of advance maybe?) her Toyota. After getting off of the taxi-bus one morning, I asked the conductor politely for my change and received only a dumbfounded expression. Another muzungu (local word for white person that children often shout at you) on the taxi kindly informed me that I should be asking for my “balance” instead. Last night I was sitting at an outside restaurant with a local girl when it started raining and she suggested we “shift” inside…

However, the most interesting communication quirk I have encountered thus far is “the what?”. In an academic setting, many lecturers will stop mid-explanation and insert “the what?” and then proceed to answer his or her own question. On my first encounter with “the what” I kept trying to answer the impossible questions posed to me. For example, on my lab tour with the lab manager Fred, I got quite confused when Fred said:

“In our lab we primarily study the what? Tuberculosis transmission. It has become an increasingly serious problem because of the what? Close living conditions. While here you will be completing several experiments focusing on the what? Organism’s genome.”

I must go now because I am running out of the what? Internet café minutes. Posts should be more frequent since I have purchased the what? New laptop. I just wanted to let you all know that I have arrived safely and am having the what? Fabulous time.

In Winston Churchill’s book My African Journey (1908) he described Uganda as “the pearl of Africa” after visiting the country the previous year.  The nickname stuck.  One hundred years later, tourist agencies, nonprofit organizations, and guidebooks still use the moniker.  According to author Thomas Ofcansky, the lustrous Ugandan pearl has tarnished during the past century as a result of brutal dictatorships, ongoing civil wars, and multiple military coups d’etat.  However, since the mid-1980s the nation has experienced relative stability and economic prosperity and now serves as a successful example to other African countries facing adversity.

Uganda is a landlocked country in eastern Africa that is approximately the size of Great Britain or the state of Oregon.  It is bordered by Kenya, Tanzania, Rwanda, Sudan, and the Democratic Republic of the Congo.  Although the country lies on the equator, it is relatively cool because of its high elevation (most of the country is at an altitude of about 3300 feet), with the daily temperature high between 68 and 81˚F and a low between 54 and 64˚ F.  Although it is landlocked, about 25% of Uganda’s surface area is water, primarily that of Lake Victoria.  Despite its fairly small size, the country is surprisingly physically and biologically diverse.  Besides Lake Victoria, Uganda is characterized by numerous physical features including semi-arid planes, volcanic mountains, glaciers, forests, fertile farmlands, and the source of the Nile River (historically, the most important).  The country holds impressive bird and primate populations; it is home to over half of the world’s mountain gorilla population.

Uganda’s 32 million people are as comparatively diverse as its flora and fauna.  Of that population, almost 90% live in small towns or villages, with the remainder living in the country’s cities, primarily the capital, Kampala (1.2 million).  The majority of people are concentrated in the southwest region.  Culturally, Uganda is composed of a complex and diverse range of tribes; this complexity has led to many of the political problems of the past and present after Britain’s political boundaries forced the peoples of those tribes into one entity, the country Uganda.  Over 33 native languages are spoken, Luganda being the most widely used.  Interestingly, Karimojong, one of these indigenous languages from the northeast region, has a vocabulary of only 180 words!  English is spoken as a second language among many Ugandans (particularly the well-educated) followed by Swahili.  Approximately 85% of the population is Christian, half belonging to the Protestant Church of Uganda and half to the Roman Catholic Church.

The Ugandan flag provides insight into the country’s history and people.  The flag is made up of 6 horizontal stripes, alternating colors of black, yellow, and red.  A white circle is superimposed in the middle with the national symbol, a Grey Crowned Crane, inside.  The colors for the flag were derived from the Uganda’s People Congress, a political party who came to power at independence in 1962 under the leadership of past Prime Minister, Milton Obote.  Yellow represents the African sunshine, black signifies the Ugandan people, and red stands for the blood of brotherhood.

It’s easy to describe Uganda based on facts and figures, but I am most excited to experience the true country, beyond what can be read in any book.

As I have just recently graduated from college, I have been asked the same question (in some variation) countless times:

“What are you doing now?”

I have encountered a wide variety of responses after informing people that I would be moving to Kampala, Uganda for one year through a Rotary Ambassador Scholarship.  These responses ranged from absolute excitement (most friends) to accusations of losing my mind (most family).  My own feelings concerning the upcoming year have followed a similar gradient at different points during this preparation process.

The second question that typically followed the first is quite simple: “Why?”  I decided to apply for the Rotary Ambassador Scholarship after my junior year at the College of Wooster.  Since I did not want to incite unnecessary worry with my parents, I did not tell them about my application decision.  A previous trip to Kenya with the Rotary Club of Wooster in conjunction with the College sparked my interest in international service.  Also, an insanely busy year filled with long, grueling months studying for the MCAT and several difficult courses made a year-off seem quite enticing before 4 long years at medical school.

The summer of 2008 I applied for the Rotary Ambassador Scholarship with the help of my sponsor club in Wooster, Ohio.  The application required the selection of 5 schools of interest.  I chose schools that were located in Eastern Africa and that had a program in Public Health (including Makerere University in Kampala, Uganda).  I heard back from the district and scheduled an interview in early September.  Two weeks later I was informed that I received the scholarship.  I was ecstatic… but still did not share my happy news as I waited for the perfect moment.

My senior year of college passed in a blur.  On top of medical school interviews, a large research project, and numerous extracurricular activities, I was making plans for my trip.  My biggest obstacle for my scholarship was obtaining admission into Makerere University School of Health Sciences, the school I was assigned in December.  With a certain destination, I finally told my family of my plans just before Christmas… I was counting on the holiday spirit to soften the blow.

Many people are familiar with the headache that the college application process in the USA can create.  Imagine that hassle multiplied by 100 and you can envision the two-by-four to the head, nails-on-chalkboard migraine that results from applying to an African university.  I would wake up at 2 to 3 in the morning to ensure that it was the school’s morning office hours.  Although the secretary or receptionist I spoke with was fluent in English we both had difficulty understanding each other; partially due to our accents but mainly because it was 2 AM and all I wanted was to go back to sleep.  Needless to say most of these conversations did not end in much being accomplished besides waking up my understanding roommate (thanks Erica!).

With only a few of my questions answered, I mailed my application to Makerere University in late February.  In addition, I airmailed it once more, emailed it approximately 15 times, and faxed it 10 times.  This might seem a bit excessive but I wanted to ensure my application got there safely (in the end my efforts proved both excessive and futile).

The application process and my scholarship shifted to the back of my mind as my senior year at the College of Wooster came to an end.  I enjoyed the last months with my friends, graduating on May 11, 2009.  Besides a two week trip to Ukraine, my summer was spent working in an agricultural research lab and living with my sister in northern Ohio.  After receiving no news from Makerere about my application in late June when other Ambassador Scholars had, I decided to take the initiative and find out my application status in Kampala.  After several phone calls, I received disheartening news: the University had never received my application.  A major panic attack followed.

After breathing into a brown paper bag for about an hour, I calmed down and started scrambling to figure out a way to still go to Uganda.  Luckily, to complete the Ambassador Scholarship you can either attend a university (my previous attempt) or conduct a research project (my new hope).  I immediately contacted every professor at Makerere University’s College of Health Sciences to inquire if they could use a free set of hands in their lab.  Most emails were not delivered successfully but after only 2 days of waiting in anticipation, Dr. Moses Joloba emailed me back… he would happily accept me into his lab to complete a project which focused on the epidemiology of tuberculosis in HIV patients.

So with renewed energy, I completed plans to leave for Uganda: airplane tickets purchased, forms filled out, immunizations updated (ouch), and contacts within Kampala made.  Now August 31^st (my day of departure) is rapidly approaching and I’m both excited and terrified…