Day Two: The Street Kids Centre

After a quick stop in downtown Kampala to exchange our US dollars into Ugandan Shillings, my small group - coincidentally my flightmates on KLM from Amsterdam - heads to the Centre for Street Kids in a district called Nsambya. A man named Milton who started the Centre and who is honorary "Uncle" to the boys, meets up with us at the bank. He's a kind man, eager to meet us all, to learn our names. He's so thankful we're here to visit his boys, and he makes us all feel safe and comfortable immediately.



Together, we take a taxi only 5 minutes or so, and we feel like we're in a different world when we get out. The streets are so narrow, we can't drive up to the centre's gate. It's dirty, crowded and Milton guides us through back alleys till we arrive at the home. He explains to us that eighteen boys technically live here - meaning they come home each night to sleep there - but that several others drop in and out each day. Currently two of the boys are in school, but that's all he can afford right now. He says he wants to bring in more kids, but that he has no room and no money to pay for a bigger space.





Once we all duck through the small gate you can see in the picture above, we get a glimpse of the centre. It's small and filthy: three main concrete rooms for the boys. The first is full of benches and has a small chalk board on the wall; the second is almost completely bare; the last is empty also save for a few tattered mattresses strewn out on the floor. This is where the boys sleep each night. Eighteen boys, on six or seven old and mildewed single foam mattresses. We are horrified, and this is not lost on Milton. He tells us to feel free to take photos, and we do, feeling like jackasses the whole time. We probably all have lumps in our throats by this time. I do, anyways. I knew we'd being seeing some hard things, some extreme poverty, but as soon as it's in front of me, I realize I'm not prepared for this.



There's also a small office for Milton, an even smaller kitchen where Betty, a nice woman whom the boys call their aunt, cooks the one meal per day the Centre can afford to provide the boys. Behind the centre, there is a small outhouse, and a tap. There is no shower, which we could have guessed from the stench of body odour that we notice as soon as we set foot in the place.

Milton herds us into the main room where many pairs of eyes give us the once over. He explains to the boys that they are very lucky to have some visitors. Who knows what these kids are thinking. Milton wants us to get to know the kids, to hear their stories and get a chance to ask questions.

He sets the five of us up in his little office and has each of the boys come in, one by one, to spend a few minutes with us. Amy, Eric, Jigna, Jenn and I ask questions that they answer, about who they are, how long they spent on the streets and how they ended up there, how they came to be living here... It feels like a very awkward panel interview and we do our best to make it less awkward. We don't know yet what we should be doing with the boys, anyway, and we are eager to learn about them.

As the boys talk, we notice their stories starting to repeat themselves. A mother dies and a father remarries. The new stepmother has too many kids of her own, and mistreats the new husband's boy till he runs away. Or the stepmother practices witchcraft, and kicks the boy out, convinced he is evil. Or the boy is accused of something, and forced out. Or both parents die of AIDS, leaving the children to fend for themselves. Sometimes the boys are less than ten years old when they find themselves on the streets. On the streets, they are beaten up, chased away, mocked, and ignored. They are assumed to be criminals. It is dangerous, they tell us, to simply be a street kid. They avoid eye contact with us as they talk, and their voices are steady, unemotional. This is life for them. It is simply how it is.

These boys are incredible - despite all they've been through, they still smile wide as they tell us their dreams. They want to become professional pilots, mechanics, engineers. They want to go to school. We ask them what questions they have for us, imagining that they'll want to know what we studied in school, how we know each other, what our company does, what North America is like. They don't care about that though. One by one, each boy asks us the same one thing: what are we going to do to help them? And we don't yet know the answer to that.

What are we doing here?

This morning Anthony gives us an short introduction to life in Uganda as well as the vague low down of what our time in Uganda will entail. He tells us about "Africa Time" - which basically means we should forget the notion of time entirely, because nothing here ever operates on time. (Anthony himself is an hour and a half late for this little 'introduction talk' we have - so, we start to understand what he means.) "Don't worry about the time," he says cheerfully, "No one here will ever get mad at you for being late." I could get used to this. He also tells us that we'll be cramped pretty much everywhere we go, especially because we're such a big group. "You'll have to squeeze," he tells us, "But it's okay. You will see." (I guess we will.)

We'll be split amongst 3 volunteer projects:

The first is the Orphans for Christ Computer Lab where we'll be training computer skills and business skills to secondary school graduates. We'll be helping about 20 young adults per day learn skills that will help them get jobs. Orphans for Christ is Anthony's organization. (It should be noted that almost all charities in Uganda are faith-based, and the majority of them Christian. We are also staying at a Christian Conference Center. We become used to God-this, and Jesus-that, very quickly.) Anthony's had the lab running only a little while. They have old equipment, not much space, and no internet access. The students are currently 3 months into a 4 month certificate program, and we'll teach two classes per day. Anthony wanted to set up the lab in Kampala, but rent was too expensive, so it's just outside the city, for now.

Next is African Child In Need, which is a home for street kids in the slums of Kampala. The kids are aged thirteen to seventeen and most have been homeless for years. They are all boys. (Girls in Uganda are generally better cared for, we learn, because they can be married off for a dowry.) We'll get to meet the boys and hear their stories. It's unclear what we will actually do while we're there, however. Anthony isn't too concerned. We'll figure it out I guess.

Last is Sanyu Babies Home, which is an orphanage for abandoned babies - aged one day to three years. We'll be helping with the day to day program while there: playing with babies and toddlers, changing diapers, feeding meals, doing laundry, and everything else associated with caring for babies. This makes me a little nervous. I think about the last time I was in charge of a baby, and realize it goes way back to my teenage babysitting days.

We'll split up into small groups, and rotate projects so that everyone has a chance to do everything, and the staff at each centre will show us the ropes apparently. Or they might not. And if they don't, we should just jump in, says Anthony. Fair enough.

Touch-down in Africa

After just over twenty four hours in travel time, we finally arrive at our destination: somewhere called Lweza, which is just outside of Kampala, Uganda, and my first glimpse close-up at Africa.

After all the anticipation, Jenn, Amy, Jigna, Eric and I are here at last. And we are exhausted, we are utterly jetlagged, and we are probably completely unprepared for what's ahead. When we land at Entebbe Airport, we are in pretty much all in a weird combination state of over-tiredness and over-excitement. We collect our luggage, which, for each of us, includes a hockey bag full of donations in addition to our own suitcase. (My hockey bag is bigger than me, pretty much, and not too much fun to drag around.) The five of us head hesitantly towards the arrival lounge, luggage in tow, looking for someone familiar (or someone unfamiliar holding a Softchoice sign), that will take us to where we need to go. In a sea of Africans, we spot a tall skinny white man who pops out of the crowd. It's Nick, and he's waving. As we head towards him, the power goes out. "Welcome to Uganda!", people say, laughing. Apparently this happens a lot.

When the lights flick on after a few minutes, we say our hellos to Nick, the Softchoice Executive presence on our trip (his official title: Senior Vice President of Mergers and Acquisitions, Softchoice Corporation), and briefly meet our Ugandan guide and host for the next two weeks, Anthony. We pile our stuff onto a bus, and ride a half an hour to our hostel, looking out the window at road signs, little shops, and asking stupid questions like "Is this Kampala?" along the way. [Note: Of course, it is not Kampala at all. It is only Entebbe Road].

It is so dark when we get to our hostel, we can't see much of anything, and after such a long journey, I am just happy to see Amy and I's teeny little room: complete with it's two beds, two mosquito nets, and little wardrobe cabinet containing three hangers and one starchy towel each. Bathrooms, shared, are just down the hall.

At night, though exhausted, I toss and turn, kept awake by strange noises outside. Dogs, barking. Something unknown, whimpering. Hours later, roosters crowing, then daylight. I have what is quite possibly the coldest shower of my life, then head to the dining area to have breakfast with my trip mates. Most have arrived before us, but were fast asleep by the time our flight came in. We eat a breakfast of toast and banana. We bond over the cold showers, all a little out of our element already.

Ready for take-off (sort-of.)

I am leaving for Africa today... I've been looking forward to this trip for the last six months, at least. Actually, in a bizarre kind of way, I feel as though for the last six months, everything in my life has been leading up to this trip. And now that I've been vaccinated for more diseases than I can even imagine, now that I have a boarding pass printed off, now that I have a Ugandan Visa in my passport, I think I'm having a bit of a panic attack.

What was before pure excitement, is all of a sudden a big case of the nerves. I've never gone this far from home alone. Note: I know I won't really be "alone": I know that I'll be with 12 co-workers, and 5 friends/family of co-workers, but somehow that's scary to me too. I feel as though I barely know these people. Of course, I know that we'll become closer over the course of our 12 days in Uganda. But I realize that I'm not going to be able to truly share this experience with anyone close to me. I realize I'm going to miss Mike like crazy. And all my friends. And Siris, and Senor Snuggles. And most likely, at least to a certain extent, the luxury of Western living. I took a long hot shower this morning, because who knows if that will happen while I'm over there.

I am starting to get nervous about everything - I have no idea what our accomodations will be like, what getting around will be like, what the people will be like, and the food, and how safe the city will be. Despite everything I've read about what to expect, there are still so many unknowns. I have no idea how I will react to seeing what I'm sure will be some pretty tough things to see. I wonder if I've brought enough money, enough insect repellant, enough sunscreen, enough everything.

My phone has been ringing off the hook all morning; friends are calling to say goodbye and to wish me well. Just before I catch the cab from my house to begin my journey to the airport, Mike gives me a pep talk about how stepping out of my comfort zone will be educational and exhilirating. And I know that it's going to be both, and so much more. And I'm still a bit terrified.