Landing in the Congo
After leaving Katmandu on the midnight of Nepal’s New Year, I boarded a plane to Dubai to reach my last leg of my 5 week trip. The streets were filled with fireworks and reflections of cheery Nepali celebrating. I was the only female in the line to get through security (in Nepal they separate genders at the airport once you are about to go through security). In fact, I was the only female in the airport until lining up to get on the plane, when suddenly a Nepali girl showed up to board FlyDubai. She was the last to board and her seat was next to me. She spoke only Hindi and had never flown before. The poor girl was shaking. Upon take off she grabbed my arm and didn’t let go until almost 5 hours later after landing in Dubai. In the meantime I taught her breathing techniques to help ease her anxiety and she was finally able to shut her eyes and sleep, although she tightened her grip on my arm with any movement I made. While I didn’t get any sleep I was glad to be able to assist this scared young girl, luckily I don’t possess this fear of flying…although maybe I should), I surely know that in the past others have helped me in times of need. Walking through Dubai’s airport was ghostly of any women at 0200 hours when I landed. I wanted to go out in Dubai and see its world but clearly nothing is going on at this 
hour, sooo I would wait until dawn. It was hot, dry and I could feel my skin crack as I had been at Everest Base Camp just days before and it was cold, dry, and I couldn’t get any kind of moisture there either. I would only be in Dubai for a short 9 hours before getting back on FlyDubai to get to Entebbe. I vaguely remember getting on that plane late, not sure how late. We seem to sit on the tarmac for another hour or so as well, I clearly lost track of any time, and I hadn’t slept since the day before. I awoke to hear the captain say we are preparing for descent, the bird’s eye view of the beautiful rivers and forest were as if lush like they had never been touched by smog or anything of the like. Once the doors opened we got off casually onto the barren tarmac and strolled towards the airport. Funny I didn’t see the words Entebbe on the infamous airport, nothing of the sort. A random African airport guy said hello and I said in a dreary raspy voice” what’s the name of this place?” He said with an accent I couldn’t make out “Kinshasa”,” you’re in the Congo Miss”! “You need to get on this plane” as he points to the plane I just got off of, hummm, no one said we had arrived in the Congo nor did they say this was even part of the stopover. I got all smiles and welcomes as I boarded the same plane and asked “What time it was and are we headed to Entebbe?” “Oh yes ma’am, just take your seat we are headed there next”, “Was this stop part of the flight?”, “No ma’am, just take your seat”. Ohhhh yes it’s been 4 years since I was last in Africa, I have forgotten the African ways. Dreary eyed and confused, landing at the infamous Entebbe airport, 6 hours later than scheduled, and awaited for by the most patient, caring Ugandans who would be my counterparts for the following 2 weeks.
Out in the rain with The Primitives
After picking Janet up from Kampala International hospital we needed to make our way back out to the villages, only come to find out Janet actually lives in the districts, (one can only find their way there with whomever lives in the districts, does not show on google maps not even google earth). As our driver turned off the main road to Jinja, he asked Janet’s mother where to go, “just up the road”, while waving her hand. Now in Africa, up the road can mean 200 miles or more, in the meantime dark clouds were forming and our driver Medi was concerned about getting stuck in the mud as well as in the dark in our van. We drove what seemed to be 50 miles or so, there are no road signs or landmarks to go by, once we turned Medi asked Janet’s mom again how much further, in her Luganda dialect she told Medi as he repeated to me “like 10 kilometers”. I wondered if 10 kilometers in Uganda really meant 10 kilometers. What seemed like two hours, but in reality 45 minutes had passed since Janet’s mom had stated only 10 kilometers, I realized I answered my own question but even more of a question in my head was how long can this go on, and does she really know where home is? Medi continued to ask and the same answer was repeated “just up there” with the hand waving. Medi and my counterpart Olivia seemed concerned; however I was on no time schedule as our photoshoot for the day had been accomplished. After another hour and 10
minutes, we had all arrived at Janet’s home, children, neighbors and Janet’s family all running to the van to greet her, she had been gone for over a week, but the excitement in both her younger sister’s eyes were enough to make me well up. It seemed everyone for miles had been awaiting Janet’s arrival. Janet’s house had 3 rooms, one room with a table and 4 chairs the other rooms were spare, the brick house was sturdy with windows but no glass to protect when the strong winds and rain came. Only Janet, her mom and three younger sisters lived there. Janet’s uncle expressed his gratitude with hugs and handshakes and wanted to give me their prized chicken. How was I supposed to accept, what gives them their daily food, if I didn’t it would be a pure insult? He also gave bags of maize and sugar, it was all too much, and all this just made me want to stay and do more. I agreed to pay for Janet’s education, but that didn’t seem enough to me, seeing Janet talk and express herself would be a gift to me. We soon left and the dramatic cloud formation, begin to bring large droplets of h20 that eventually turned into a lightning and thunder storm. It was pitch black with absolute no lights, there were other vans and cars stuck on the side of the road, bodas were the only ones making it through such deep mud. We came upon a sugarcane truck that had gotten stuck and turned on its side, these are large heavy trucks that when carrying sugarcane withhold well over it’s height of ability to carry, it’s placed so over the height of the truck, that it appears top heavy and passengers get on the top of all that and ride to get to the next town. All the mileage we had driven to get to this point was a waste, the truck was taking up the entire road, we had to turn around and search for another way. We drove in an open field with no direction as the cars and bodas that were headed toward us, also appeared to not be driving in any particular direction. It was so dark out but the clouds had cleared somewhat which made the sky a light blue. I could see a shorter woman walking, she had a spear in her hand, It felt really primitive out there, like anything could happen. I felt safe and I knew the driver would get us to where ever we were to be, but I wanted to get out and walk around with my camera, clearly that wasn’t going to happen but it’s the image of the primitive with her spear is burned into my mind…this is one of those moments that I will clearly have painted in my mind forever.
Is loneliness painful?
It was my first Saturday in Uganda, it had been a really fun day out in the villages, doing shoot after shoot, children and families so happy and so grateful for even the littlest things. Our last stop was the Nile Clinic, another clinic where children are seen by an orthopedic surgeon. The patients had been waiting all day with their parents, waiting on the surgeon to see them for their follow up. He told them to come at 10am, but he didn’t show, for unknown reasons. There was a particularly bright eyed, smiley child that was sitting alone, he had come from a faraway village on a boda to be followed up on with his club foot surgery. When asked to pull his pant legs up to show his scars and his corrected surgery, he did so with the biggest proudest grin a child could own. He still had to use the crutches but at least he could ambulate, he was crawling up until he had the club foot surgery, he’s 10 years old by the way. He isn’t in school because it’s too far and too painful, for him to walk on crutches to get there. His mother left when he was young and hasn’t returned, his father is bedridden with AIDS. He has no siblings, no
neighbors that live near, an aunt that occasionally looks after him. No one comes in with him to the see the doctor. He hadn’t eaten or drank anything the entire day while waiting to be seen, I don’t know if he has food or water at home, not sure if he has anything at home. I decided it would be best to get him something to eat and drink, and a cookie, he’s probably never had a cookie. When I brought food back to the clinic, this child’s radiant smile lite up as he hugged me. The younger much smaller child came inside to see what I had brought, before he even took a bite, he had given the smaller child a piece. This astounded me, as I know inside he must have had satiety pains, maybe I had them for him, he just shared as if that’s what he should do first before feeding himself. It had gotten late sometime after 5pm and he had another 4 hour journey ahead of him to get back to where he lived. He was put on a boda and sent his way. Before sending him, I slide money in his pocket, wondering if he will know to spend this on food for himself, then hugging him so tightly it may have scared him. I could only think that this child is going home to a bedridden sick father who gives no affection or interaction, that there is no food or water for him, and maybe he might be so lonely for just anything. I could only hope he gets home safely on the boda, if there is an accident, will he be accounted for? All of it saddened me, basic human needs, FOOD, WATER, and LOVE! I couldn’t hold back the tears that were welling up, seems I have had so much, I don’t feel like I had ever starved or been so lonely for affection like this child, but I could feel it, as if it were the most painful object whiling into my gut, my throat, my eyes, my heart ached, truly ached as I climbed on my on boda to get home, I didn’t need food or water the rest of the day, I wanted to think about what was really important in this life. How could I make an impact? How can I change things so children like this can experience love and be loved?
The process of African Tea aka “weebale” , thank you in Luganda
It was the last scheduled shoot I would do for the organization. The sun was setting beautifully, it was golden hour and we had arrived with a warm welcome to visit the last patient. We were greeted as we drove up to the house and my counterpart Toni had prefaced me about this patient’s grandmother and how outstanding of a citizen she was in Jinja, her warmth radiated immediately. The patient, the grandmother, the mother and the aunt were all awaiting our arrival and were ready to tell their side of the story and have a photograph taken. The light couldn’t have hit their faces with better timing, reflecting their gracefully barely aged skin and eternal youthful genes. The grandmother was overcome with joy and gratitude, she had so much to say, and very engaged and such words of expression it left an imprint on me. She asked if I would stay for tea, knowing I couldn’t get the words out quick enough, I replied “but of course”. She mumbled in Luganda jargon to th
e three boys that were standing near, they then scurried off to what five minutes later would be the process of making African tea. The older boy gathered the cow, the two younger boys fed the cow, the grandmother milked the cow from her engorged utters. I didn’t know African tea would be so fresh nor did I realize it was so taxing for a cup of tea, who was I kidding, this is Africa. She told me to go in the house and wait, while she sent another boy off to get firewood and water from the well. Part of me was feeling shamed I let this woman and children work so hard for my cup of tea, and the other part of me was finally realizing how to accept a gift. 20 minutes had gone by and in came the grandmother with her milk tea, sugar, and her finest china with saucers, my throat welled up. I made bread too, would you like toast with your tea, before I could say yes, and she had toast fresh from her firepot. Lastly, she asked “do you like eggs?”, again before my reply could come out, I was served the lightest yellow, fluffiest farm eggs, straight from her chicken coup. Another speechless, beautiful evening along with so many gifts and so few words to say but “weebale”.
The Art of Giving
I eat every morning at 6am here in Uganda, it’s become my habit, I arise just before I walk down the stairs to the beautiful ladies who cook and make African Tea. I’m not sure if they want to cook then or they have just gotten used to me meandering up that early and being in the kitchen and dining hall. So because I eat at 6 or so, by the time 12 rolls around I’m starving like a ravenous fool whose never eaten. I feel really embarrassed about this because most Ugandans eat one meal a day, they never complain and they would never say “I’m starving”, so when my blood sugar drops, my counterparts know this and know they need to feed me soon, no matter how hard I try to hide it. So it’s close to noon and we are headed to our first village. It’s a long ride, jostling about in the driver’s car whose windows don’t roll up, there is exhaust fumes coming into the car and it’s deathly hot. It’s been an hour and we are deep into the jungle when we finally pick the child’s father that we are going to see, which usually means there’s another 30 minutes ahead of driving. I feel faint, although I’m trying to hide this. We finally arrive to a small village of only two huts, but about 17 children are standing around and four adults. The smallest child walking is our patient, he is quiet, walks slowly from his club foot, and comes straight up to me to look at me. The parents quickly assemble four sodas and four fluffy fresh rolls. They offer them up and I do my best to eat very slowly, chew every bite as not to show one sign of hunger desperation. I mean what do I know about being hungry. I am a Mzungu (white person), we no nothing of what it’s like to not to eat for days. These fluffy fresh sweet rolls are Uganda donuts, aka Mandazi . I mean seriously if I was the food critic for East Africa, well my weakness would be for these. I would have a Mandazi making contest; I would of course be the taste tester for each one of them. In that moment I had forgotten where I was, the donuts feed my glucose need, the served each papillae on my tongue. Humm—as my glucose level rose I began to think had these people even eaten today? I mean here I am chowing down on this donut, and they probably gave me this being their last thing to eat. The gratitude these Ugandans show is unbelievable. They have such little but are willing to give the last thing, as to make you feel welcome and loved. Once again tears form in my eyes the very minute I realize this is going on all while holding their child in my lap. They have no idea the lessons they are teaching ME, the education they are giving ME, the reminder of what life is REALLY ABOUT! I reflect on this moment often and it gives me great gratitude I was a guest in their village. Of course before leaving, another prized chicken was presented. Africans could teach the “Art of Giving”!
This morning’s walk is not ordinary
I had taken a walk down the road every morning, mostly to get out and see nature, Uganda is lush with beautiful trees, the Nile River, vast farmland and all kinds of animals, reptiles and insects. I would see monkeys and exotic birds in the trees, along with cattle in the road, goats on the sidewalks grazing, all on the same road in one block’s radius. I would pass by many women and children working in their field next to their homes early in the am until past dark. I stopped one morning because there were children wanting to say hello. I was eating a piece of ginger candy I had gotten in India, and they had asked if they could have some. I said yes but I only have one piece. The oldest took it out of my hand hit with a small hand tool she had been using and broke into 9 pieces; she gave it to all eight children standing around. She turned to thank me and off they went back to work. I still DO NOT HAVE WORDS for this kind of experience. I think I was stopped on the road to be taught what it’s like to share, and that every little ounce can be spread into something that can be shared.
I no longer want to be a westerner
I had been traveling through various parts of Asia for three weeks prior to getting to Uganda. I had seen and had my feel of westerners and how they act in the non-western world. I think there needs to be an etiquette for at least Americans when they travel, in 2013 the Chinese put out a guide for their tourists when they are abroad, I think the US could benefit from the same. Particularly with putting a camera in people’s face, asking in appropriate questions about the culture, why not do research an
d study the culture, people, and political activities, as opposed to coming in so ignorant. There were moments of embarrassment, upon seeing such gluttonous westerners asking for more food, or demanding particular food, when it was already prepared. I don’t understand why in another country you want things to be like it is at home, hence this is why we travel. Traveling modestly is really the name of the game, being showy with money or being a bossy westerner is embarrassing to those who are not, I can see where it gives us a bad name. While always being with my counterparts, they would either tell me stories or I would see it for myself, I said “I’m a Ugandan, not a westerner”, they knew what I meant in certain circumstances.
Up close and personal
As a photographer, there aren’t always times when you’re granted access to your subject’s home, or their family or even their hospital stay and most never their vulnerability. I was granted every access you could possibly get and at the same time they granted me their trust. There were times I was even assisting with a wound, the patient and the family treated me no different. They allowed me to photograph them, their wound and scars, invited to come inside their home for tea or dinner, and even asked my advice on different thoughts. As gracious as it was, it was also humbling. With all that I felt I had a deeper richer connection then most of my past subjects, not only to them but to their heritage and their country. Yes, it was dreamy experience.
THE photoshoot
It’s rare as a photographer, that you get to see the behind the scenes lay out of every process of your subject preparing for the photoshoot they are going to be a part of. We had been driving for hours, on another long pot-hole filled road, the temperature was tepid, the sun was out, clear blue skies ahead, I even had my first crested-crane sighting, Uganda’s country bird. There were only two days left of shooting, and I wanted to make the most of every shoot I could get in before I had to exit the country. Meanwhile, we picked up a friend of the family to get us to the location, he also did some translating to and for the family, he seemed as grateful as the family was that we were there. That was something you could almost feel every chance you had a driver, translator or neighbor there. I always left with the feeling that the impact was heavy not just on the recipient and the recipient’s family, but the entire village and possibly even the next village over. When we arrived, the children were playing in a hut, I attempted to play with them, but they were very scared of me and had never seen a Mzunga prior, I thought it was best to let them play out and I would hang back and see what I could observe. The family members that resided together were a set of grandparents that had been married over 45 years and still appeared in love, an Aunt that tended to the care of four children that weren’t hers and another child who was 14(our patient). Upon arriving, I noticed after introductions the Aunt went about preparing some things, each child was pulled to the side to have a bath. In the golden hour sunlight I could see each child getting bathed in the silver sterile-like pan, suds and water flying about and one child crying trying to resist his cleaning. I also noticed that each child came out one by one with a new clean shirt one, tattered and torn but clean and along with that they would carry a cloth of some sort; towel or another shirt in order to have something to sit on the ground while we gathered to talk. Lastly I noticed the Aunt and the child that was our patient all come out with clean clothing on and combing their hair. They have not a mirror; as a matter of fact I have rarely seen a mirror when I go to Africa. I was told they were ready now to take a picture, a picture they may never take again in this lifetime, they do not even own a picture of their family , or their children, or anyone. I was speechless at what I didn’t realize was their preparation for a photograph I would soon take, it felt special, warm and historical. A photograph I would take, that would be in my camera, on my memory card in my computer, filed away in my dropbox forever. A photograph they may never receive, but oh so willing to allow me to take for them. It couldn’t have been a more peaceful clear evening than that one. Of course another prize chicken they sent with me, along with some fresh grown peppers their neighbor handed us as we got into our van to drive away. This memory sits vivid and clear in my mind as to what a family should be like, grandparents together for decades and children consistently being cared for by another family member who feels it’s her job to raise them and love them unconditionally regardless of the fact that she didn’t rear them.
