A Day in Nakivale Part 1

            When you work in Nakivale, you’re guaranteed to never oversleep.  The settlement wakes its residents with a procession of alarm clocks.  It starts at 5:30 am with the resounding call to prayer echoing over the dirt roads and throughout the mud huts.  I never want to wake up to the call to prayer; it means it’s far too cold to come out from my mosquito net and no one else will be awake for another two hours.  If I manage to sleep through the first alarm, a second will sound an hour later when the birds begin to chatter and hop across my room’s tin roof.  The final wake up call comes at 7am from the crowing of the roosters and the subsequent stirring of the rest of Nakivale’s residents.  At this point there’s no going back to sleep.

            I swing my legs over the side of my bed and fight my way out from under my net before rushing off to the bathroom.  The latrine is always the first stop in the morning because I’ve avoided using it since it became dark the night before.  It is nothing but a hole in the ground, blocked by a wood door, and constantly occupied by hundreds of flies.  I dread using the bathroom and minimize it as much as possible.  Once its out of the way, I carry on with the rest of my morning routine.  Get dressed, brush my teeth outside, apply sunscreen, pack my materials for the day, and begin to mentally prepare myself for the stories I know I’m about to hear.  A quick knock on Rania’s door and we’re off to breakfast.

My room complete with bed, mosquit net, jerrycan and basin.

            We leave through a back door and are typically greeted by a group of kids yelling, “Abazungu!” (Look! Light skinned people!) and playing near the water tap behind the hotel.  We walk past hoping not to see a long line of jerrycans.  The mornings there is a line indicates that water never came the night before, a problem most residents blame on the Ugandan staff that they say steal the fuel that runs the generators that pumps the water.  At one point during our stay we saw that line three days in a row.

            We eat breakfast and dinner in the same restaurant run by a wonderful Ugandan couple that speaks no more than five words of English but always greets us with massive smiles.  When we walk in, our interpreters Furahaha (FFH) and Boscoe (Boss) are waiting for us.  We eat the same breakfast together nearly every morning: black tea and a chapatti and egg scramble, all for less than $1 each.  While our food is being prepared the four of us lay out our plan for the day; which pair will tackle which areas, how many interviews we need to complete, and when and where to meet at the end of the day.  We quickly eat and by 8 am, we’re out the door and off to work.

The water tap behind out hotel.
This was the line of jerrycans we found after water was turned off for 3 days straight.

The Ugandan couple who cooked nearly all of our meals.

            There are around 60,000 refugees in Nakivale representing over 8 nationalities and speaking countless languages.  The camp is separated into approximately 14 zones and each zone is divided into a number of communities organized by nationality.  In such a diverse settlement, separating residents by nationality is one of the only ways to keep the peace.  In order to record an accurate representation of the needs of the children in the entire camp Rania and I have to split up.  In front of the bar that shields the entrance to our hotel, Rania and Boss haggle with a boda boda driver (a glorified dirt bike) and head towards Kabazana to interview 3 families from the Burundian community, 3 from the Congolese community, and 3 from the Rwandese community that live in that region.  FFH and I head in the opposite direction towards Juru where we interview families in Congolese and Rwandese communities.  With the driver, FFH, and myself tightly straddling the boda, I say, “tugende” and we take off.

            Juru is one of the regions located farthest from the center of the settlement.  That means that in order to make a report to the UNHCR or GIZ (two of the largest organizations operating in the camp), apply for resettlement, or seek counseling or legal aid, the refugees that live there have to make a 3 or 4 hour trek.  Additionally, they have to walk through a vast, relatively uninhabited plain where nearly all of the sexual abuse reported to us is said to take place.  Its location also means that FFH and I are in for a lengthy boda ride.  

            The first part of the trip takes us winding through villages on dirt roads.  I am consistently impressed with our driver who swerves back and forth avoiding massive holes in the dirt and goats and chickens that have strayed onto the road.  It's a frightening ride but I am pleasantly distracted by the kids in the villages who, upon our approach, vigorously tap their friends and siblings and run to the side of the road to point, laugh and smile as they yell "M'zungu! M'zungu!" (Light skinned person!).  If the road isn't too rough I do my best to lift a hand and wave.  It's impossible not to smile.  

The plain that separates the more "urban" zones from the more "rural" zones.
Many refugee women and children come here to look for firewood.
This area is the location where most of the sexual abuse reported to us is allegedly perpetrated.

The condition of a typical road following rain.

            After about 15 minutes we approach the expansive plain that separates the relatively more "urban" communities near the center from the more "rural" ones like Juru.  This is by far the most frightening leg of the trip.  At this point the huts and people disappear, and so does the road.  We are riding through grass and mud and since it's the rainy season, the driver is forced to slow our pace and tip toes us through puddles and muck.  I am scared the boda will slide out from under us at any second. He is also forced to navigate through herds of long horned cattle who are grazing in the middle of our route.  If one of them turns its head I fear I'll be impaled.  Along with frightening moments, the ride through the plain offers some beautiful views as well.  Additionally, we are always sure to see a number of Ugandan Cranes, the country's majestic national bird.

            Once we successfully cross the plain, its just a quick 20 minutes on dirt road until we reach Juru.  When we arrive, the driver pulls over and I pay him for his service (including a tip if I felt like my life was endangered less than normal).  Once we're on foot I am swarmed by the most precious little children who are convinced that white skin will feel differently than black skin.  They take turns touching my arms and asking for high fives as they look up at me with their big beautiful brown eyes.  I tell FFH that I sort of feel like I'm in a petting zoo but it's impossible to turn these smiling faces away.  We exchange a few words in Swahili and with a child holding each hand, FFH and I begin searching for our first family to interview.    

Long Horn Cattle blocking the road.

Uganda Crane in the plains.

My mud drenched rain jacket after a rough boda ride through the plains.