Topsy Turvy in Tororro

Anthony, the director of the orphanage I am assisting with, had planned a week long trip to his home village in Tororo, in eastern Uganda. He wanted us to see the “real Africa” as he put it, as opposed to the city life which we have become accustomed to. Tororro is the area where he wants to eventually start another orphanage and community outreach organization. There are few non-profits in the region and the people have little help. I also made plans to take a day trip to visit a town nearby. I had met a wonderful man named Gerald that wanted me meet the children and widows of his home in Busia and videotape their stories. Anthony is our coordinator, since we are technically volunteering for him, he arranged with Gerald that we could be in Busia by late afternoon on Tuesday. We would spend the night there and visit Busia more the next day. It all worked out perfectly.

We hopped in a taxi and set out east. We made our way past the Nile, lush forests, and green plains. A family of baboons hopped onto the road. As we slowed to have a look, an aggressive male ran up to our window. I am not sure if he wanted to pump our gas or if he was soliciting us for a banana. In any case he stared me down long enough for me to take a nice photo. I continued to enjoy the scenic countryside out my car window. I had little idea of the chaos we were about to incur.

We reached Tororo and took bodas (motorbikes) into the slums, the first site. I guess I was expecting to ride up and find a few people hanging out, just chilling. Then maybe we would chat with some folks over goat kabobs. Or maybe we would talk about the last crappy Nigerian movie we saw on TV. Maybe even play a little Texas hold ‘em. All my conjectures were wrong.

As our bodas drew closer, I heard a cacophony of shouts and squeals that grew louder and more thunderous. Was there a soccer game going on? Nope. The howls were for us. A swarm of 400 children enveloped us as we pulled into the village. The women released some sort of Xena Warrior princess high-pitch shrieks. I got off the bike and passed through an ocean of children. They had never seen a white person before. I felt little hands grazing my arms and poking at my elbows. They were investigating my skin to see if the white would wipe off. The women came up and lowered to their knees while shaking my hand. The bowing was custom, but felt too subservient to me, so I tried to add my own little head bow. I think my head bow just made me seem like I had nervous tick. I was bowing so much I looked like bobble head you stick on your car dashboard.

Hundreds of people gathered to meet us. Their mouths open and their eyes wide in anticipation of my every move. I wish I had been warned of this large audience, I would have learned to juggle, swallow fire, or do some magic tricks. Something. Surely, I have got to be the biggest let down. I am just a klutz that makes a funny face every now and then that might warrant a giggle. But yet, we were the guests of honor here. They sat Kelli, James, and I down and performed songs, speeches, and dances for us. We spoke a little bit about why we were in Uganda, and then they cheered and hollered. They wanted desperately for us to be the answer that they have been looking for, the solution to their problems- the end to their poverty.

We left and were ushered to another village. Once again, we were greeted by hundreds. I felt as though I was campaigning for the presidency of Uganda. Everywhere we went there were hordes of people that wanted to shake my hand. I was welcomed with the same looks of wonderment. And after each place we visited, Anthony swept us away to another location. I kept glancing at my watch. Time was flying by and we still had to visit Gerald in Busia. But there were more locations were organized for us to see.

When we finally got to Busia it was around 4:30pm. And then Anthony surprised us by announcing that we had to be back in Kampala that night. Our time was limited to the next few hours, which posed a huge conflict because Gerald had scheduled us to visit 5 villages. At this point, I have come to the conclusion that if I gave the following logistical question to both Gerald and Anthony they would most likely fail. Grab your pencils kids and play along too, circle the answers that fit best!

Question 1) If you have scheduled Lauren to visit six villages with over 400 people in each village and they are all at least 30 minutes or more apart from each other, what can you deduce?

A. It would take more than a few hours to visit all of them.
B. It would not be wise to tell all the villages that Lauren is coming at the same time.
C. Due to the large number of people give Lauren more than 15 minutes to meet everyone
D. It might be a good idea to inform Lauren, so she can tell you’re crazy and that is too much to do in one day.
E. None of the above
F. If you circle “E” you are an idiot.
G. If you circled “F” you are a bigger idiot


I should have known something like this would happen. Some of the people I have met here have no concept of time. We first discovered this when we would make appointments at a particular time and the person we were expecting would arrive a good three hours later. In the States, it’s embarrassing to be over 15 minutes late. I am told that it’s common in Uganda to arrive a few hours tardy.

Nonetheless, we hurried to the first village. Greet, shake, and smile. Repeat. Greet, shake, and smile. Repeat. We were spending 15 minutes at each place. I didn’t like this rushed cycle one bit. When we got to one of the last villages, the night was swallowing up the sun. Gerald informed me that these people had been waiting since 9am to meet us. I was led to the inside of a large circle of people, and a man stepped forward to speak to me. “Where have you been? Most of the people have left because they have waited so long for you?” he loudly proclaimed for all ears. I looked around at the hundreds of faces staring at me. This might be the most awkward guilt trip of my life. There is nothing more excrutiatingly torturous then being blamed for something that is completely out of your control. I looked to Anthony to maybe pick up a little of some of the blame and save me. No use, he stared blankly also awaiting my response. I composed myself. I spoke as the man translated my apology for the crowd.

Anthony began ushering us out to get back to Kampala, but not just before a woman stepped forward and appealed for me to give her a minute to speak. The light was fading quickly; I squinted my eyes to see her face, and held up my camera. In a low raspy, almost inaudible, voice she recounted how two of her husbands have died of AIDS, and her community threw her out when they found out she too had AIDS. “I now look after five children, and none of them are mine,” she struggled to say in gruff whisper. BLEEP BEEP. Just then my camera cut off, the battery had died. Shit. I pretended to keep filming. I didn’t want to put my camera down, because I knew she wanted to be heard so badly; her words to be recorded, kept in memory somewhere. I let her finish. I was pissed at how this day had turned out, but I told myself I would meet her again. I have to.

I made a promise to return to Busia and spend several days so I can meet every single person and give them the time they deserve. We had met over 3,000 people that day. I was exhausted and disappointed at how everything had been managed. So… I guess the moral of this story is: When in Uganda and making travel plans, always assume there has been a communication breakdown at every level. AND never give specific times when making arrangements, because people will show up three hours later or eight hours earlier. Give time frames. For example: I will meet you for lunch between Tuesday and Thursday.

Now that all is said and done, I better start saving my money if I am to single-handedly save all of eastern Uganda.