Where we live in Kampala, Kololo, is one of the nicest parts in the country. We have almost continuous electricity, running water, a water heater, and tall, barbed-wire walls and guards to shield us from the perils of the rest of the world. In the flats, we have our own little havens with mosquito nets, solid flooring, fans, stocked kitchens, and hot showers. Here, I do not feel as if I am in Africa, the so-called land of rampant extreme poverty. I just feel like I am at school, living with 16 awesome people. Nonetheless, when I go to my sites during the week, I am reminded that I am where I am.
On Wednesday, I went on home visits with a clinician from Reach Out and a community leader of the clan we were visiting. We took boda-bodas up the mountain and then walked the rest of the way up. There could not have been running water or electricity up this mountain. As we climbed up the steep, brown, dirt-covered incline, I saw kids with tattered clothing and many villagers of all ages striking piles of rocks with sticks to break them into smaller rocks. Stella, the clinician, informed me that they did this for a living. We continued upward, passing by women and children with yellow plastic jugs for collecting water to bring back to use in their homes. And then there were the homes.
I am not usually shocked by circumstances of poor housing, having seen the bad living conditions present in much of China. However, somehow, this village topped even that. The walls of the houses (or should I say huts?) ranged in composition from crumbling brick and cement to large wooden sticks filled in with the mud from the ground. Each place could not have been any bigger than 6 feet by 6 feet. Generally, there was one mattress and then room for a few belongings and a chair or two. If you were lucky, you had a solid floor with a mat to cover it. If not, you coped with the mud floor. The narrow walkways between residences were mounds of rocks and mud. It had rained recently, leaving sporadic puddles of murky water and slush on the ground. We visited a woman who was living by herself. She had left her family more than a year ago to come here and receive free treatment for her TB and HIV problems. Her hut had a curtained entrance. The ground jutted upward at the entrance. On it was a busy trail of ants. Inside, the withered woman sat on her bed, a mattress on the dirt floor. In a flowery traditional dress, she greeted each of us congenially, holding our hands in both of hers. I sat on the bench, facing her, with my feet on potato sacks used to cover the uneven ground.
As I was sitting there, looking at her, looking at the wooden planks for walls, looking at the corrugated metal ceiling, looking at the soiled soap on the ground, I felt an aching inside. Even now, it makes me slightly nauseous. Even in Uganda, I have lovely flats and clean bedding to return to every night. Waiting for me at home, I have a loving family with a big, sturdy house to return to. What did this woman have? Sickness, scraps of metal and plywood, fewer worldly possessions than would fit in my luggage bags for this trip. What could be done? What was my responsibility? Even if I gave this woman money to fix up her home and eat a little more, what have I really done? What happens when she runs out of money? What about all the other shanties in the village? In the country? In the world? This leads to the major question of our entire trip: How do we make a sustainable impact? It’s not enough to just donate time and money. You have to find the proper way to help out—the best way to really work towards bridging the gap between how I live and how they live.
