Mailing Address

For those interested, here is my mailing address while I'm abroad:

Kelli Kleitsch
c/o SIT Uganda
PO Box 1268.
Gulu, Uganda

I have no idea about postage or mailing methods, or anything else. But, mail takes about three weeks to get here, and I'd love to get a letter or card or anything else while I'm cut off from the rest of the world here.

No packages, though! Odds are, they'd get jacked before they ever got to me.

Thanks!

When Aid Is The Problem

I always hear people saying, “We don’t need to be helping the world, we need help at home first.” And that might very well be true. Poverty is a very real issue in America. It might look different than here in sub-Saharan Africa, where whole cities are without electricity and indoor plumbing, but it’s still very, very real. In the land of plenty, the numbers of the starving, the homeless, and the sick are astounding. So why would I choose to live here when I could live in relative comfort and modernity while still doing just as much good work at home?

The answer lies in the problem: despite how advanced, how wealthy, and how many opportunities there are in the U.S., so many people are forced to go without, and there are always going to be bigger and more powerful players at work who do nothing but benefit from keep the downtrodden, well, down. They’ve been rewarded for taking advantage of the little person for too long; they’re entrenched. What we need is a complete system overhaul, and it may be cynical, but I don’t see that happening. I can’t content myself to working tirelessly in a system that has no hope for real change. For now, I do my part, volunteering, donating clothes and money when I can to worthy groups and foundations, and spreading the word about wrongs that need righting, but I’ve lived in America for far too long to truly believe I can really make a difference. In the developing world, power is constantly shifting, and as slim as the hope can be, maybe, just maybe, if I can be in the right place at the right time, I can help the right person come to power, I can help the people have a voice, I can make sure a system can be put into place which is representative of the rights of each and every individual. Of course, no system is perfect, but at least in the developing world, there’s always hope for something better, where at home the cycle of greed, selfishness, and manipulation seems (and has thus far been) perpetual.

This is why I chose to study in Africa, rather than in Europe: eventually, I want to be a human rights activist. I’m probably going to spend a good portion of my life living and working in the developing world, so it made sense to make a post-conflict study a part of my undergraduate education. It’d be a good experience, I thought. It’ll make me look like a serious candidate when I apply to grad school for development studies, I thought. I fully expected to be changed by this experience; what I didn’t expect was to have my entire outlook on international aid turned upside down.

That’s not to say I had a rose-colored view of aid work to begin with; at Knox, one of my favorite professors is really, really good at making sure we’re intimately informed about how often NGOs and international organizations such as the UN or the World Bank tend to hurt more than help (and that’s if they actually do anything at all). But it’s one thing to read about how NGOs often fail to connect to root problems in a conflict area, and to see the devastation left in their wake firsthand. That is my daily life here in northern Uganda. It’s incomprehensible to me how millions of dollars could have been sunk into Gulu, yet those psychologically damaged from the war are left to wander the streets, homeless and begging for money, and the city is filled with orphans with no means to attend school receive an education, let alone keep from starving to death. Domestic violence and alcoholism are at an all time high. During the war, just five years ago, over 170 NGOs flooded Gulu alone. Now, with Joseph Kony on the run and a relative peace having been restored to Uganda, less than 30 remain. This is supposed to be a time of recovery and reconstruction; now, more than ever, the Acholi people need help, yet there’s none to be found. Where have the NGOs gone?

NGOs have been a daily part of Ugandan life ever since the conflict began in 1986 when Museveni, a military man from the west of the country, overthrew the administration of Obote II. Kony was no madman at first; in fact, he enjoyed a relative popularity with the northern Acholi, who immediately began to suffer under Museveni as he sought revenge for the wrongs committed by the Acholi during the previous administrations (the Acholi are by no means innocent in this conflict. As is typical in developing African states, the violence is cyclical. But, that’s another story). He seemed to be the lone voice of the Acholi people, speaking up on their behalf and fighting for their rights. However, it soon became apparent Kony was more than just an Acholi warrior, fighting for his people’s rights as Ugandan citizens. Kony began raiding northern Acholi villages, pillaging for soldiers and supplies, slaughtering thousands of innocent men, women, and children along the way.

As the LRA grew in strength, Museveni decreed the northern villages be abandoned, that the people move to designated camps – the IDP camps that still exist today, more than twenty years later. Those who remained behind risked being branded as an LRA sympathizer and killed by the national army, called the Ugandan People’s Defense Force (UPDF) or killed outright by Kony’s men for not having already joined the resistance (i.e., being “bad Acholi”). Museveni argued the forced migration was to weaken the LRA, and perhaps this was true. However, it was one more way for Museveni to exert his strength over the Acholi people. They had little choice; thousands of Acholi families packed up what little they had, and moved into the camps.

Conditions were atrocious. Both food and medicine were in short supply. Disease was rampant. There were many instances of both torture and rape at the hands of Museveni’s men as they searched for LRA sympathizers. Being in the camps didn’t even protect the Acholi from LRA raids; it was never the case that there were enough guards to sufficiently protect the camps, and therefore the camps were no safer than if the Acholi had remained in their villages. In fact, many argue that being confined to the camps was worse, because if one was living there, they were deemed by the LRA as supporters of Museveni, and further suffered the wrath of Kony.

It was here that NGOs enter the picture. Bent on alleviating the food and water crisis in the camps, they swooped in and began doling out packages to anyone who would take them. They brought in medicine, and treated the diseases when they could. To raise money at home, they painted the picture now understood by the international community: that Kony is a madman, that people are being killed, that we must help. That Museveni forced the people into the camps on fear of death was conveniently omitted from fundraising events in the Western world.

The conflict went on for longer than anyone could have anticipated; 20 years later, and there was still fighting in Acholiland.  By now, camp life was the only life. People had grown up in the camps, knowing nothing but the handouts from white NGO workers. Men had been forced to abandon their livelihood, their way of providing for their family, and been moved into a wholly demeaning role in Acholi culture. To cope, they turned to alcohol, selling or trading the packages from NGOs for drink. To solve this problem (and to empower women in the meantime), aid workers began giving their packages to women. This, however, only fostered more contempt within a household. Men, feeling even more emasculated, would simply beat their wives and take the packages anyway, creating even more violence within the camps alone.

Kony fled to the bush in Sudan, and then the DRC. Peace talks began in 2006, and again in 2008. A relative quiet fell over northern Uganda. And with that quiet, the Acholi were told they could finally return home. With that decree, NGOs, even the UN, closed up shop as soon as they could load up their Land Cruisers, leaving a very broken community in the dust as they pulled out of Gulu Town.

In Gulu, one of the epicenters of the war, there are no psycho trauma centers designed to help victims and ex-combatants recover from the war. The poverty here is apparent everywhere. Even men and women, with jobs and homes, find it perfectly acceptable to expect to receive something from every white person they pass in the street. And it’s not laziness, or selfishness, or greed. It’s twenty years’ worth of experience. The people here have been taught to think that way.

I know hindsight is 20/20, but with everyone working here in Gulu, how could no one have seen this coming? How did everyone just show up and treat the symptoms, rather than the problem – the camps themselves? Where was Museveni’s condemnation for treating his own people like animals? Where was the outcry on behalf of the people who were suffering just as much the abducted? Despite all the help given to them, despite the hundreds of aid workers that took up residence in northern Uganda, despite being the center of this decades-long conflict, the Acholi were always alone.

Honestly, there are times when I feel like the situation is hopeless. I can’t go back in time and change what was done, and I don’t know what I can do to help now. But, when I take a step back, it becomes a little clearer. Being aware of my identity is my greatest strength: I am a white, female Westerner. There is literally only so much I can do in a culture where I can never blend in and being a woman limits the scope and range of my power and influence. Accepting my limitations on the ground is the first step to success.

The second is utilizing the inspiring strength of the Acholi people; despite decades of violence, in which they have been both the victims and the perpetrators, they remain. And they are not resentful of their country – on the contrary, one of their deepest wishes is to heal, to recover, and become a part of Uganda. While there may be parts of this state they wish could be changed (like the current administration and the damage caused by the NGOs), they have not given in to despair. They carry on. There are people here who want nothing more than to work to rebuild the north and truly unite Uganda – I’ve seen them, heard them speak, and talked to them at length. The skills they have to offer are invaluable to the recovery effort. They know how to relate to the community because they themselves are Acholi; they speak the language, know the customs, and understand the frustrations of the people. No matter how much I study the conflict here, I will never be able to know it better than them, and they are the ones who would know best where to apply aid and how to do so. It is this grassroots set up which would re-establish trust in the north. It is my responsibility, and the responsibility of all Westerners, to connect these people with benefactors in the West, for it is our strength to drive the funds that would get this work done.

Finally, and this is a mantra often repeated, inter-agency cooperation is key. It does no one any good to have three or four different agencies working toward the same goal, and against one another to get there. It is a waste of time, energy, and funds, and is nothing but a strain on the people who are supposed to be benefitting. Saying, “everyone needs to work together” is one thing. Policy changes will only come once aid workers begin to actually step up, make concessions to one another, and agree to work together.

No Westerner can come in and say, “This is how it should be done.” Time and time again, these presumptions have proven to be the undoing of good work across the world. With these ingredients, real, sustainable aid might finally be possible in northern Uganda. And if giving aid is really what aid agencies are all about, shouldn’t this be the goal?

A Day In The Life

Now, I realize my previous post most seem a little… disheartened. But, I still stand by it. While my situation may have improved dramatically since then, dealing with all those emotions was an important part of accepting what was happening to me and being able to react to it.

That being said – I LOVE my home stay family. Seriously. I know I’m totally backtracking here, but they’re awesome. I like being at home with my Ugandan family better than going to class with my American counterparts! Being at home is way less stressful, and I feel like I’m learning so much more there than I do in class. While my biggest challenge right now is feeling like I’m not being challenged enough academically, my home stay is both engaging and comforting.

My family is huge – our compound has four houses in it, and there’s a fifth being built so that my family can rent out the rooms in it for extra cash. Everyone in all of the houses are related in some way; the four standing houses are filled with relatives

I live in the house at the back of the property, with my mego (mother), Grace, and wego (father), Peter. Ugandan houses, though, are set up differently than in America. One can live in anything from a grass hut to a brick house. I live in one of the latter. There is a porch and front door that leads into a sitting room. Off of this sitting room is Grace and Peter’s room. It is here that the similarities with American homes end, however. The room I share with Esther, my lamera (sister), is right next to Grace and Peter’s, but to get to it, one would have to walk back outside and down along the house until they reached our door. Our room, my omera (brother) Michael’s room, and the kitchen are all independent rooms, with one front door at the front of the house by which one would enter. The rooms are tiny, smaller than a bedroom or dorm room in America, and they are still crammed with at least two beds and a bookshelf or two for storage, but somehow, these rooms still seem homey.

Michael and Esther aren’t Grace and Peter’s children. All of them are away at school, in Kampala or farther, and won’t be home until December. Rather, they’re Grace’s niece and nephew, and they are living here while they both attend Gulu University. I think they are renting – I also think they are serving as the home’s houseboy and girl. This practice is common in Uganda, but I still feel awkward hearing Mego call for them from inside her sitting room, or when they do things for me, like making my bed or bringing me tea, without me having to ask.

Michael attends school Monday through Friday, but I still get to see him a lot. He’s home in time for dinner, and usually we eat together with Esther. He’s really funny, and talks to me about American television shows a lot, like American Idol or American’s Best Dance Crew. I always hear him walking past my room singing hymns.

Esther is probably my best friend here. We get along really well. She goes to school on Saturdays and Sundays all day, but I see her every night when I get home from school. She likes listening to hip hop, and we’ve taken to listening to Ke$ha before bed every so often (since that’s really the only bit of hip hop I have on my computer).

In addition to Esther and Michael, there are several small children in my compound and in the surrounding houses that come and play. In the middle house, there’s Joshua, who’s 8, Mercy, who’s 7, Adoc, who’s 6, and Michelle, who’s just 2. Mildred and Eric, two children from the neighborhood, come by and play almost every day. When I come home from school, Adoc and Michelle run at me, and climb all over me, wanting to play until somebody else tells them to leave me alone. Michelle speaks really good English, but Adoc doesn’t speak any at all, so communicating with her can be really difficult sometimes. I try to use some of the Acholi I learned to talk to her, but when I do, one of two things happens: either I say something, and she laughs so hard she almost falls down, or I say something, she doesn’t understand what I’m saying, one of the other kids translates for her, and she laughs so hard she really falls down. But, somehow, we manage.

I’ve settled into a routine here, which is helping me a lot with coping. On school days, I wake up at 7 AM and bathe (it takes me 40 minutes, since my hair is so long and I only have a bucket to use). Then I get dressed and take tea before meeting one of my classmates, Samantha, at 8:15 to walk to school. Getting to SIT is a half an hour walk through town, and almost every day we get accosted by the same guy who wants money on Kampala Road just before we reach school, so it’s nice not to walk alone.

Then I’m in school from 9 to either 2, or 4, depending on the day. Sometimes we have one lecture, sometimes we have two. If we get out early, I’ll stop in an internet café and check my email and Facebook before going home, otherwise I’ll just head back to the house and play with the kids until it’s suppertime, around 8 o’clock. After we eat, Esther and I usually just go to sleep. There’s no power in our compound right now, so it’s really to dark to do anything. If we get power back, we might watch a little television before bed, but my schedule won’t change much.

On the weekends, I’m free to spend my time however I want. I might have some homework I have to finish, or chores (I hand-washed all of my laundry yesterday!). Otherwise, I’ll just play with the kids for hours on end, or read, or write in my journal.

So, that’s pretty much my life, at this point. A week from tomorrow, we’re travelling to Kitgum, another area that was affected by the conflict in northern Uganda. Until then!

Culture Shock

I’ve been really busy since the last time I posted. We did end up going out, though, as you could expect, it wasn’t really ‘clubbing’ as we know it. There’s a bar in Gulu called BJ’s that’s really popular with what Morgan calls ‘ex-pats’ – i.e. foreigners, Peace Corps workers and the like – and it was easy to see why. Though hardly lit at all, there’s a definite tropical theme to the bar, and the speakers pump out an eclectic playlist of remixed Western music, anything from Ke$ha to Blink 182 to Nickelback. The bar has theme nights, too. Wednesday was comedy night, and Thursday was the hugely popular trivia night, where the prize was a case of one of Uganda’s own beers, Bell (I prefer Nile, the competing Ugandan lager, but hey, free beer is free beer). All 15 of us showed up to play, and they split us into two teams. We scored really well – my team got 21, and the other scored 24, but the high score was 31. We plan to make Thursday trivia nights a tradition; we’ll get ‘em next time.

When we went out, though, I picked up on a lot more than random bits of trivia. As a white-skinned, female, American student, I am a huge commodity (throw in the European-looking blonde hair and blue eyes and I’m downright invaluable). I haven’t been asked for money once while I’ve been in Gulu – I have, though, had people, particularly men, call out to me or come up to me in bars wanting to marry me and take them to America. They’re very forward, here. Their style of picking up women is so forward it’s both disconcerting and oddly refreshing. One man in particular asked if he could teach me a traditional African dance sometime, and when I told him I had a boyfriend at home, he didn’t waver. “Psh,” he said, waving his hand dismissively, “he is in America. This is Uganda. You should get a Ugandan boyfriend.” At which point, he tried to come with me back to the hotel and Morgan had to swoop in and save me.

Men aren’t the only ones who notice me, though. When I walk down the street, everyone stares. Children get especially excited when they see me. They call out from the side of the street, “Munu, munu, munu!” which is Acholi for white person. Several of them have come up to me to touch my hands or arms, convinced white skin feels different than black skin.

Sometimes, though, it gets really tiring. Always being stared at is a constant reminder that no matter how much I learn about Ugandan history, no matter how much Acholi I speak, no matter how long I stay here, I will never be able to blend in, let alone look as though I belong. Simply because of the way I look, I will always be a tourist.

I felt even more out of place when I began my homestay this past Saturday. Dr. William had talked up homestays a lot. According to him, everyone would want to see me and talk to me all the time, and I should not expect a moment to myself for a very long time. Families would want to show me off to neighbors and friends, so I should expect to meet lots of new people. Also, odds were that they would cook me  a special meal the first night, which might include a gizzard, which I would be given and expected to eat as an honored guest.

As the pick-ups drew nearer and nearer, I was more and more anxious. I never make a good first impression, so I wanted to very quickly get that part over with so I could actually start charming my family. Dr. William only told me a little bit about them: my homestay mother was a woman named Grace, who was a journalist, and she had small children around. I had really been hoping there were little kids in my family, so I was really excited.

However, it wasn’t Grace who came to pick me up. It was a man, maybe two or three years older than me, whose name was Michael. Whereas everyone’s families had wanted to sit down and talk to them for a bit, Michael just asked where my bags were so he could take them out to the car. He seemed even more soft-spoken than most Ugandans I had met, so understanding him was that much more difficult.

Dinner that night was also nothing like I expected. I didn’t have to eat a gizzard, thank God – but I had groundnuts, bread, a banana, and water. Since in was raining, Michael and I ate in relative silence on the porch, and no one else was around. After dinner, I went to sleep in Michael’s room, since mine wasn’t ready for me yet.

The weather was nicer on Sunday, and people were outside in the yard when I woke up. I met a few smaller children, who kept calling me either Catherine, the name of a previous homestay student, or muzungo, which is Kiswahili for white person, but after a while, they went off to play or do chores for their mothers, so I was left alone again. Michael was doing chores all day, and Grace was still nowhere to be found.

At this point, I was feeling distinctly unloved. I was trying not to feel ungrateful; no one had been mean to me, or seemed resentful I was there, and I was being fed and given every consideration Ugandans give to a guest, but I was left very much alone, I felt out of place, and was being relatively ignored, for the most part. My apprehension at having to spend the next four weeks living there was only growing, not easing, with time.

Then, on Monday night, I was up nearly all night throwing up. I don’t have malaria, which is good, but I have low blood pressure (whatever that means) and my white blood cell count is up, which means my body is definitely fighting off something. What that is, though, I don’t know.

On the whole, I’m feeling really alienated. Not enough time has really passed to become really close with any of my fellow students, and I am just feeling really out of place in every capacity. Sometimes it’s easier to deal with than other times, but sometimes I just really, really want to go home. This is all normal, though! At least, from what I understand. Apparently, this is all part of culture shock – you get past a ‘euphoria’ stage and then just get angry and sad for a bit. But, it’ll pass. I’m confident it will. Now that lectures have started, and I’ve begun learning Acholi, everything will get better. It has to. I mean, I didn't throw up today, so that's good, right?

Kampala --> Gulu

This is me, crammed into a tiny coffee shop with six other SIT students, each of us typing furiously away on our laptops. We could not look more like tourists.

That's alright, though. In fact, it's expected. And as long as you buy a bottle of Coke, your Internet is free, no matter how slow it may be (and slow is as good as it's going to get). No complaints here.

Honestly, I don't even know where to begin. So much has happened in the past five days, it'd be impossible to put it down here. So, I'm going to try my best to get the highs and lows down, and you can use your imagination to fill in the rest.

The actual flights I had to take to get here were completely ridiculous. I have never been more exhausted. I flew out of Chicago at 5:30 in the afternoon this past Saturday, to arrive in Boston three hours later and fly out at 10:30 that night. Then there was the overnight flight to London. I couldn't get any sleep at all, and arrived at 10:30 the next morning facing 12 agonizing hours in Heathrow until I could board my plane to Kampala. The plan was to meet up with another girl from my program who had a similar layover, but with no method of communication, I was hoping to meet her at our gate so we could spend some time exploring London. Unfortunately, Heathrow doesn't post departure gates until an hour before the flight is supposed to leave, which left me alone in Heathrow for the foreseeable future. I managed to get some sleep, sprawled out over my things, but it wasn't particularly restful, so I decided to watch a movie on my computer to kill some more time.

Then I discovered I had bought the wrong converter. It only had holes for two prongs, not three, like my computer cord had. There was no possible way I could go without my computer for the duration of the program, and because I knew I'd be living with families and not able to use another student's converter all the time, I knew I had to find one. The only one that would work in the entire airport, it seemed, was 35 pounds at a Brookstone store - the equivalent of roughly $70, from all accounts. Awesome.

I sat myself down my the departure board, determined to wait until my gate was announced. It was here another girl from my program, Bethaney, recognized me from Facebook, and flagged me down. We quickly found a third student, Charlotte, who attends the same school as Bethaney, so waiting wasn't so hard after that. At the gate, we met up with three more girls, two Annies and Lily, and we all boarded the plane for Kampala together.

Eight hours later, we landed, where we met up with two more members of our program, Noah and Sam. We didn't have to wait at the airport long, and soon we were driving past Lake Victoria, the biggest lake in all of Africa, and through Kampala, headed for our hotel.

Driving in Uganda is completely insane. There are no traffic laws, no speed limits, and no cops to enforce safety - if anything, the cops are only looking for illegal goods or a bribe. We skidded around pedestrians, motorcycles, and other cars going upwards of 50 or 60 miles an hour on narrow, poorly paved roads, listening to Heart and Phil Collins on the radio as we went (I know, right?). All I wanted to do was shower - after two days of travel, I felt disgusting. I didn't get a chance to do so that night, after we met with our program director and had lunch and dinner, mostly rice, plantains, and beef and goat meat.

We met Joe and Samantha that night, each of which had been in Africa for a time previous to the start date of our program, and the next morning we met the rest of our group - David, Jamie, Chelsea, Karen, and Jared - all before boarding a bus for the five hour ride to Gulu, where we would spend the next five weeks.

Everything went really well, at first. Traffic getting out of Kampala was a nightmare; our driver often turned off the engine we would be sitting still for so long. In these traffic jams, vendors would approach the bus and offer to sell us anything from brooms to questionable-looking meat on sticks. Morgan, one of our program advisors, bought us some sugar cane to eat. Basically, you take a bite out of the stick (which is way harder than it sounds), chew the piece until the sweet juices are all gone, then spit out what's left.

We stopped for lunch two hours after we had been on the road, which consisted of beans, rice, and mango juice, and then continued on. I dropped off for a bit, sleeping with my head against the window, but was jarred awake an hour later by a sudden drop in speed of our bus. We had broken down.

Apparently, this happens a lot, so often that the standing rule is that if your vehicle breaks down while you're in it, you don't have to pay the driver his whole fee. If you crash (a very real possibility), you don't have to pay the driver at all. Morgan and our program director, Dr. William, found two taxis to take us and our things the rest of the way to Gulu, just as we had been ready to break out frisbees and playing cards to pass time on the side of the road.

We crossed the White Nile an hour before reaching Gulu. We weren't supposed to take pictures, since the Nile and the bridge we crossed are guarded by the military, but a few of us, myself included, managed to sneak a few shots. From inside the grimy windows of the taxi, the pictures don't really do the view justice. The river is massive and awe-inspiring. Even though the water is a muddy brown, the river cascades down huge boulders, creating huge rapids. It'll be great to go back and see it in person in a few weeks.

Not even a mile past the bridge, we got our first glimpse of real African wildlife, outside of the cattle and goats which seemingly roam free about the countryside - giant baboons sat and walked along side of the road, only feet from our taxis. There were so many, and then watched as cars drove and people walked past as though it were nothing! I didn't even think to pull out my camcorder, which is a huge bummer, but I'm sure we'll see them again, and I did get some pictures.

It started to rain just as we got into Gulu, long enough to soak the luggage we had strapped to the tops of the taxis. Gulu is much smaller than the city of Kampala. It's only considered a town, and only a few buildings have electricity. I'm rooming with Lily again, on the fourth and top floor of the hotel. We had to lug our fifty pound suitcases all the way up, and that's when my suitcase decided to break, right then and there, on Day Two. One of the wheels just completely snapped off. As I was coming into this cafe today, I saw a place that sold luggage; it looks like I'm going to have to go and get a new one. Hopefully they'll be as cheap as everything else here in Uganda seems to be (huge bottles of beer come out to be only about $1.15!)

It was nice to finally relax today, without the thought of more impending travel. We were able to begin orientation today, which mostly included giving Dr. William our extra money and passports for safekeeping at the SIT office, and talking about program rules and expectations. We have all of our afternoons free this week for exploring, which is great; there's an IDP camp not even a block down from our hotel that a few of us would like to visit, so that we can begin getting a real sense of what it's like to live in this country, not to mention all the shops and people who live in Gulu normally. Lessons in Acholi begin Friday, and we go to live with our homestay families Saturday afternoon.

Right now, that's what's causing me the most stress. I am really nervous to go off by myself and have to depend solely on my own merit to interact with a family. I really hope they have kids, I think that would make me feel so much more at ease. I'm just hoping my homestay gift is enough - since Jelly Belly originates in Illinois, I brought a big 2-pound bag for the family (Thanks, Mrs. Steinsdoerfer!).

I think that's it, for now. Hopefully, I'll be able to post a little more often, now that I'm in Gulu, so that each post won't be so long and can be a little more insightful. But, for now, I'm off - dinner is in a bit, and I want to explore Gulu town some more. And tonight, a bunch of us are going to go out for drinks at a local bar, which sounds awesome (don't worry, we'll be safe and stay in a large group!).

Pictures soon!

Leaving

I spent today doing two things: getting ready to leave for Uganda tomorrow afternoon, and saying goodbye to my friends and family.

It's clear I've gotten past the giddy excitement of simply knowing I'm going to Uganda. I've now reached a level of sheer terror. This is it. It's really happening. My stuff is really in a suitcase (well, most of it, anyway) and when I say, "See you later" to all of my nearest and dearest, I'm really saying, "See you in December." It is incomprehensible to me that I will be on a plane to Boston in a little more than twenty-four hours.

I don't want to leave my friends. I miss Knox terribly - my live feed on Facebook is filled with statuses of returning students, and I long for the Gizmo, and Seymour Library, and the Quads. I want to go back to living with my best friends, pulling all-nighters to finish papers, and dancing on the weekends.

I'm also reluctant to leave home; my neighbors have very generously opened their house to me, and invited me to join in with their group of friends, all of whom I'll miss greatly while I'm abroad. Leaving home also means leaving my boyfriend, who lives out of state, and who I talk with everyday. I'll be effectively cutting myself off from everyone for nearly four months.

However, I think that, once I've met up with other students in my program, I'll start feeling a little better about this whole excursion. It's the transitioning that will be the most difficult - I very much wish there was at least one person making the entire trip with me. I believe I would be much less apprehensive if that were the case. But, I'll have my computer, my book, and my iPod.  Hopefully, that will keep me entertained, at least until I meet up with some SIT girls in Heathrow on Sunday.

My next post will be from out-of-country - stay tuned!

Emergency Message for U.S. Citizens

I received this two days ago via email:

Sub: Emergency Message for U.S. Citizens - Heightened Terrorist Threat, August 29, 2011

This Emergency Message is to alert all U.S. citizens traveling and residing in Uganda of heightened security concerns related to regional terror groups, including al-Qaida and the Somalia-based al-Shabaab, that remain actively interested in attacking U.S. interests in Uganda.  The U.S. Embassy encourages particular vigilance around several upcoming dates, including the end of Ramadan, the tenth anniversary of the September 11 attacks, and the beginning of the trial of those suspected of carrying out the July 2010 bomb attacks in Kampala.  The importance and symbolism of these dates may make them particularly attractive to terrorists.


The email went on to encourage travelers to make smart decisions regarding personal safety: avoid large public gatherings, be wary of one's surroundings and belongings, try not to travel alone.

Honestly, I'm not very concerned. If al-Qaida wants to target U.S. interests, odds are they'll pick someplace far from the Ugandan countryside. Still, it made for good reading.

I leave for Uganda in less than 48 hours!