The Tsunami

The pictures in the slideshow below were taken by me and my brother during our trip to Ko Lanta over Christmas 2004. They are in chronological order, and they attempt to tell the story of those days, depicting isolated moments before, during, and after the tsunami struck.

For a bit more about our experience on Ko Lanta, read the post below.

(The music is Pearl Jam, Release.)

Attaching a Purpose

I hadn’t been awake long when I heard my brother JJ outside our beach bungalow in Ko Lanta talking to our dad. Although it was the morning of December 26th, back in Seattle it was Christmas night, and JJ was wishing him a merry Christmas. It was the beginning of our last, lazy day on the small island off Thailand’s coast in the Andaman Sea, but when my brother yelled “Shane, get out here,” his tone indicated something was wrong.

When I came outside, he pointed to the beach where we’d been lounging for the past few days, but the beach was submerged. The water had risen to the point where sand met land, and the current was running parallel to the shore like a river.

At our resort’s reception area, no one knew what was going on, but in the minute or two it took us to get there from our bungalow, the sea had receded. We sat down to order breakfast, looking out at the Andaman, trying to make sense of its behavior.

Soon we spotted a set of waves far offshore. They weren’t much larger than the surf you might see along the Southern California coast, but these were out of place. In the three days we’d been there, we hadn’t seen anything that would resemble breaking waves, just gentle ripples lapping the shore. Something else—this I didn’t realize until I returned to Los Angeles—was the speed of these waves; they were moving too fast.

They charged ashore, roiling the sand as they surged, sweeping tables and chairs up at the restaurant. As the waves crashed into the restaurant’s foundation, the hotel manager ordered everyone out. Amidst the following tumult of confusion and misinformation, we spent the day atop a hill waiting for the approach of rumored waves. We slept atop the same hill that night beaneath a full moon setting into the Andaman.

We returned to our resort the next morning. Indicated by the ribbon of detritus, the water had come within feet of our bungalow door, and there was minimal water damage throughout the resort. My Reefs, which I’d taken off per custom before entering the reception area, had been washed fifty feet from where I left them.

When we walked up and down the beach, witnessing the decimation of other resorts and bungalows, the destructive force of the wave became clearer to me.

At the airport in Krabi later that day, the gravity of the tsunami was more pronounced. Everyone was trying to get back to Bangkok. Everywhere around us people’s faces told stories of a wave far more devastating than what we’d encountered.

When we returned to Bangkok, where news and information was more readily available, the magnitude of the tsunami that struck Southeast Asia, India, and places as far away as Zanzibar and East Africa crystallized.

More than five years after the wave, that day serves as a reminder of nature’s fickle way.

I remember telling my students after the tsunami that my New Year’s resolution was, simply, to have a New Year’s resolution the following year. After witnessing a natural disaster that killed more than 180,000 people, I resolved to make it another year.

For at least a few years, that resolution seemed good enough.

***

Tomorrow, my brother and I will return to the islands of southern Thailand, and we will stay again on Ko Lanta. I’m not sure what this reunion will bring, but the lesson from our first encounter is clearer to me now than it was in the days and weeks that followed Christmas 2004. It is also clear that the resolution of five years ago is woefully inadequate.

I have learned since then that it is not enough to simply resolve to get to the next year. Whether it is next year, next month, or even tomorrow, it is not nearly enough to simply count the time as it passes. Some purpose must attach to that passage of time. There must be something more.

"Blessed with less"

The uncharacteristic warmth and spotless blue sky of San Francisco greeted me as I left the bar. It was mid-afternoon two summers ago and I had some time to kill before meeting my friend, so I turned south on Polk and crossed to the east side of the street toward Broadway away from Russian Hill.

From about halfway down the block, I made eye contact with the man at the bus stop. He was sitting on a bench facing me, and as I approached, he continued to watch me. His wild beard favored necessity to luxury, but his eyes were soft, and his smile broad. As I walked past him, the warmth of his dark face melted my apprehension and I greeted him.

“How are you, sir?” His clothes were tattered and his hands rested calmly on his knees.

“Blessed with less, friend.” His voice was gravelly smooth. “Blessed with less.”

I was already passed him when he repeated the words, but they drifted on the air and stayed with me. At dinner that night, I said them aloud to my friend and marveled at their simplicity and the man and the moment that was so fleeting.

The man was not complicated by the worries of everyday life. In his voice there was no hurry or desire. There was only content with himself and his situation, even though at that moment, the clothes he wore, and his comfortable seat on the bench were the man’s only possessions. Still, there was a simplicity in his life, an ease to his soul.

His smile was at once pain and sorrow, but more than that, understanding and happiness. Understanding in the meaning of those words, and happiness in the confidence that they were true.

In the nearly eighteen months since, the words have stayed with me, and I have been reminded of the warmth of his smile.

***

Rose Namaganda worked for the owner of Shumuk House where I stayed in Kampala. She cleaned apartments Monday through Saturday, and she usually arrived before 8 a.m. After letting herself into the apartment I shared with my friend Dan, she would often walk through the front room to the bedroom and stand on the threshold to see if either of us was awake. If not, she’d knock on the open bedroom door, just waiting for one of us to respond to the repeated rap. In this way, she was a sort of alarm clock.

In addition to providing wakeup calls and cleaning our apartment, she negotiated to clean our clothes. Prior to working at our apartment complex, she had been a typist. In her spare time, she worked as a seamstress to supplement her monthly salary of $50. And through all of this, she has been raising her sons, Cyrus, James Joel, Joshua, and Isaac. Cyrus, the oldest, is ten.

Rose also rolled her eyes at our stupid jokes, but secretly found them amusing. She warned Dan and me about the dangers of Kampala women, and she chastised us when she found empty beer bottles on a weekday morning. In this way, she was a sort of mother.

“Wake up. You are lazy,” she would tell me.

“I am not lazy, Rose. I don’t have to be at work for an hour and a half. I’m sleeping.”

Some mornings she arrived with pineapple for me that I had given her money to buy the previous day. She insisted she knew where to get the best pineapples at the best price and she taught me the best way to slice one.

Once every week or so, she’d inquire about the state of our wardrobe—specifically, the degree of its dirtiness. These questions led to laundry negotiations, during which she argued the weight of clothes and insisted that the filthy state of certain articles required more strict attention and subsequently warranted higher wages.

She wanted to know what America was like, whether or not it was different from Uganda, and after seeing the US Soccer team on television, why our team had “white, brown, and black” players.

Toward the end of our stay, she brought us homemade samosas, a Ugandan pastry, for breakfast.

She also liked to watch African Magic, a Nigerian-produced soap opera that captivated far more Ugandan viewers than it should have. On the occasion that I found her watching the show in our room, transfixed in front of our small television, I told her she was lazy.

She asked about my family, especially my mom. She tailored a traditional Ugandan robe for my mother from silk. And on the day I left Kampala to return to the U.S., she helped me pack my bags.

I trusted her implicitly.

I helped her apply for a bank account. After acquiring passport-sized photos and an Identification Card from the director of her local precinct, she opened a savings account in the days after I left Kampala.

Through our daily conversations, I learned that she has a brother living in Florida. One of her older sisters worked downstairs two days a week doing the books for our apartment manager. And she lived with her youngest sister and her four sons.

They are her life. She beams when she tells you that Cyrus is the best student in his class. When Isaac, her youngest, was sick, she described the difficulty of getting him to the clinic and buying the expensive medicine for him. On her modest salary, she supports her sons, including paying tuition at the private school they attend and covering rent for the apartment where they all live.

***

Early in the summer, I told her I’d love to meet her children, and upon her invitation, my roommate Dan and I visited her home.

We left with her from our apartment after she had finished her workday on the last Saturday of our time in Kampala. With her we rode to her home in the back of a taxivan. Filming the experience and generally making idiots of ourselves, Dan and I struck up conversations with the people in the van while Rose just looked away out the window and smiled, half embarrassed, half amused.

On the ten-minute walk to her home, we stopped by her two oldest sons’ school, less than a kilometer from her house. At nearly five o’clock on a Saturday, they were still in class, preparing for the upcoming exams at the conclusion of the school year in late July.

After a dirt road up a hill and a turn or two (top picture: Rose and Dan on the walk home from the taxivan), we finally came to Rose’s home. Her apartment was one-third of a long row house, the dirt road running its length. The front door opened onto the street. (Middle picture: James Joel and Cyrus kicking the soccer ball out front.)

Inside, a curtain divided the 10-foot ceiling of the front room. Behind the curtain were the beds where Rose, her sister, and her sons slept. The room on the near side of the curtain was filled with a couch and table upon which sat the sewing machine Rose used for her tailoring. There was also a small chair and a television sitting upon a stool. All told, the apartment houses six people but is no bigger than the largest bedroom in your house, and while it has electricity, there is no running water.

The “living room” is where we spent most of our time during our visit, watching a Ugandan educational quiz show and eating Rose’s best dish, potatoes and rice with boiled greens. It was delicious.

Her youngest son, Isaac, was visiting his aunt in Jinja, so when we arrived Joshua, her second youngest, sat quietly, but inquisitively studied our white, unfamiliar faces. With the chocolate we'd brought, we coaxed a smile or two out of him, but it wasn’t until his brothers returned from school bringing with them the comfort of familiarity, that he opened up.

The back door led into a dusty courtyard behind the apartment. Laundry lines hung lengthwise across the courtyard and there was an outhouse in one corner that was shared by her family and the tenants of the other apartments in the row house. As darkness fell in the courtyard, we kicked around a soccer ball Daniel had picked up at the store earlier that afternoon.

From the back step where she was cooking dinner over an open flame on a makeshift grill, Rose stood and watched us play with her sons, smiling. And before we left, I took a picture of her with her sons and sister on her couch, and there was that smile again. It was a familiar smile.

A Sense of Familiarity

Exhaust thickens the air outside Bangkok's Suvarnabhumi International Airport, but it isn't until you get into the city that the familiar smell of Bangkok fully matures. There at street level among the vendors and the motorbikes, humidity mixes with pollution or the occasional whiff of sewage or the smell of grilled meats, and the slightest breath of wind can turn stale air fresh and sweet with the smell of fruit sold on the sidewalk.

The Bangkok air has a character that is at once vague and distinct, equal parts charm and reminder.

Being in this city for the fourth time to visit my brother, walking on the street, and smelling the smells reminded me of arriving in Kampala last May. I remember the van ride along the road from the Entebbe Airport into Kampala for the first time, I remember a sense of familiarity with the thick air of the third world, and I remember smelling that same air when I left Kampala in July, trying to put my time there into perspective.

People ask me about my experience in Africa, and I have not yet found the proper way to sum it all up. But I know there are still a few stories to tell--stories that not only reveal the beauty of East Africa and its people, but also suggest something about people everywhere.

Wheels of Justice, Part VI: "On Appeal"

It was appropriate, the gathering of vultures on the Bank of Baroda building across the street from the Court of Appeals. It was a Thursday in mid-June, and evidently, the birds knew the fate of three defendants hung in the balance, and they awaited the verdict. Through the open windows you could hear their ocassional squawks that mixed with the faint sound of car horns and the high-pitched squeal of brakes, the scrape and smack of construction workers, and the click and hum of the overhead fans that circulated the muggy morning air.

When the three, peroxide-wigged and ornately-robed federal appellate justices entered, those present in the courtroom rise and quickly come to order. Any humor found in their traditional garb evaporates as they peer down from the bench.

"Are you ready to proceed?" the principal judge asked the defense attorney.

"I am not," she says. "I have been unwell and have had other matters in lower courts."

The principal judge removed her glasses with a professorial look of disapproval. "This takes precedent."

Through the attorney's profuse apology, it becomes clear that she is not prepared for the appeal hearing. Whether she has been unwell or her other professional obligations have prevented her from fully preparing, she will not argue the appeal today. The appellate justices, seemingly to their chagrin, declare that the hearing of the appeal will wait until August.

As this declaration is made, the three defendants in the dock look on. Because the proceedings are in English and it is likely the defendants--one woman who looks 40 and two men that are at least ten years her junior--have only a spartan understanding of the official language of the court, they don't react to the words and gavel of the judge. They simply look on, wide-eyed, the meaning of what has just happened an unknown.

A uniformed officer from Luzira Prison collects them and leads them down the stairs to the holding cell before their return to prison at the end of the day. It will be a return to a place they know well.

***

After the courtroom cleared out, I approached the defense attorney who had not been ready to proceed. Because of the noise in the courtroom, it was difficult to understand the nature of the decision being appealed, so I asked her what the case was about. It was a murder case.

More than nine years earlier, according to the attorney, the female defendant had killed her husband in a fit of rage when she discovered that he was having an affair. After stabbing him to death, she chopped up his body in the hopes of feeding it down the hole of a outdoor latrine. When she realized that parts of the body were too big to fit into the hole, she sounded an alarm.

When the police showed up, the woman admitted to taking part in the murder, but also implicated two men--the same men that stood with her as co-defendants.

During the first trial nine years earlier, she contradicted her statement to the police, testifying under oath that she was the only person to have a role in the killing. That testimony, however, was not enough to overcome the earlier accusation. She and the men were convicted of murder and sentenced to life.

It is a curiosity that a murderer who confesses to a crime in court and claims she acted alone would not be sentenced alone. But in Uganda, the fact that she told police upon her arrest that two men were accomplices (a seemingly obvious fabrication from a criminal facing a potentially lengthy sentence) was enough to convince the lower court judge that these two men were involved. The only other evidence implicating the men was the testimony of a witness who said he saw the men "in the area" the night the crime was committed.

But for the last nine years, the men have sat in prison, awaiting their chance to appeal. This is another indicator in the painfully slow justice process of Uganda. As time ages the court record and whittles away at witnesses' memories, two men who have spent nearly a third of their lives in prison must rely on the mercy of three appellate court justices and the abilities of an attorney, who while seemingly well-intentioned, was unprepared to argue their case on the day of their appeal.

From that day back in June until now, they have waited, passing their lives in Luzira Prison, hoping that they will soon be free. Some time next week, barring another delay, the two men will learn their fate.

Roads to Nowhere

"Roads? Where we're going, we don't need roads."
-Dr. Emmett Brown, Back to the Future Part II

I don't know if Doc ever took the DeLorean to Uganda in 2009, but he might as well have. Because like Doc and his flying time machine, Ugandans don't need roads either--or more precisely, don't have them. At least not roads in the sense that you or I know them.

The roads of Kampala are generally paved, but they are scarred with axle-breaking potholes. Many of these potholes are large enough to swallow up a small car or motorcycle taxi, and they can delay traffic by turning a two-lane road into a narrow bottleneck.

One such pothole exists at an intersection on my way to work. It is big enough for me to lie down in, and it forces cars that could otherwise gently merge into traffic to come to a complete stop before turning hard into a fast-moving traffic lane. And it is not alone. Big bastards like this are everywhere.

On one late-night motorcycle taxi ride, my driver and I were almost sent sprawling when one crept up out of the darkness and flattened the driver's front tire. He was able to get me back home on the flat tire. I don't know if he was as lucky.

On a busride to Jinja to go rafting, the road from Kampala backed up, bringing traffic to a standstill. The source of the delay was a wide, multi-cratered gash in the road that forced all traffic--in both directions--onto the shoulder, invading a roadside market.

The potholes are comical at first, frustrating upon spending more time in the country, and ultimately emblematic of the gross inefficiency of basic public works projects that are victimized by the greed of government employees who would rather buy cars for themselves than roads for their constituents.

***

I was able to witness the birth of one of these potholes on the street below my apartment over the course of a few days. It was like watching the creation of the universe. From nothing came something.

It began with a slow trickle of water originating in the middle of the street, running down into Kampala Road. It grew over the next day or two until it was a puddle a few feet across that emptied with the splash of wheels running through it, but slowly filled again, its source some unseen force below the tarmac of the street.

The leak went unattended for so long that if you looked at the section of road downhill from its source (which didn't seem to alarm anyone in its first three or four days of life) you would have thought that it was raining.

By the next day, my roommate Dan and I had taken up watching the pothole in the afternoon when we returned from work. Nursing Bell Lagers, we'd excitedly watch to see if cars would run through the pothole, hopefully soaking someone either on a bike or on foot that was unlucky enough to be in the splash-radius. Was this a bit childish? Yes. But also unceasingly entertaining.

Later that night, on the way to the gas station across the street to collect the deposit on the now-empty bottles of Bell, I saw that a group of men were working to fix the leaking pothole. Without any apparent official uniforms or vehicles, the men had sectioned off the street and were shining lights down onto the still leaking pothole.

By the next morning, the leak was no more, and the pothole had been filled with a red, dusty clay that smoothed over the road. Over the following days, the dust slowly hollowed out until it was again a crater, but at least without the leak.

The pothole remained in that state until I left Uganda nearly three weeks later. And it serves as a reminder of the problems the country still faces.

Driving on a highway or surface street in America you take for granted the smooth, paved road. It is a natural and obvious part of our everyday lives that most of us cannot remember being without.

Yet in Uganda, the idea of a paved road or consistently running water or uninterrupted electricity is not a given, but a luxury that citizens still hope for and do not expect.

A young man who worked in the High Court with colleagues of mine has lived in this country for the last ten years of his life. His father is a consultant for the development of roads and highways. The young man, Vuk (pronounced Vook), told us a story of a road project outside Kampala where a company owned by the President's brother had received a contract to pave a new road. After six months and millions of dollars, less than one kilometer had been paved. There were no repercussions for the brother or his company.

The politicians and members of parliament and police chiefs and directors of road development and those lucky enough to be within the long arm of nepotism and cronyism are getting rich and living a life of excess in Uganda. The country's citizens are breaking axles and getting soaked.

Wheels of Justice, Part V: "The Trial"

The clock tower of the High Court rises impressively from cream columns and archways, giving it elevation over State Square Park and a view of southern Kampala. From the tower the clock bell tolls away the hours for all within earshot as the clouds lazily pass overhead, and it serves as a reminder of the day's business within.

Inside, the courthouse is a labyrinth of corridors and stairwells, offices and courtrooms. It is the epicenter for criminal justice in this country, and it is grossly overmatched. Here, the trials for capital offences--murder, rape, aggravated defilement, aggravated robbery, and treason--begin their journeys through the courts, but there are only five courtrooms, and they cannot reasonably serve as a forum for the thousands of crimes that are committed each year.

In each courtroom, dark-stained wood panels the walls, the judge's bench, the witness stand, and "the dock," where the defendant stands throughout the trial. It is an imposing place, the courtroom, and for most defendants and witnesses who enter, it is an entirely foreign environment.

Years of courtroom dramas on television and in movie theaters have introduced most Americans to our justice system, and if you were to be led blindfolded into a courtroom, you would immediately recognize where you were when the blindfold was removed. Moreover, you would be familiar with the procedure as a trial got underway.

The same is not so for Ugandans.

When an aggravated defilement trial began three weeks ago, the defendant, victim, and other participants, through their actions, revealed just how foreign a place a courtroom can be. And, sadly, how difficult the administration of justice can be in Uganda.

***

As the trial begins, the defendant is brought to the dock, a penalty box of sorts where he will stand for the remainder of the trial, and the charges are read by Justice Lugayizi.

The man, no older than 20, is wide-eyed as he listens. He does not understand what is being said because, like most defendants, he is either uneducated or under-educated, and speaks only broken English. So when Justice Lugayizi finishes detailing the case, the charges must be translated into Luganda, the defendant's original language.

The translation poses several problems for the court. Certainly, it delays proceedings while the clerk must translate the words of the judge to Luganda, but then also translate anything the defendant might say back into English. Also, Luganda's origins are thousands of years old, and the language does not have perfect analogs for words like "judge," "attorney," and "criminal charges," the legalese of the courtroom.

Further adding to the problem is that no proper recording device is present in the courtroom. The official court record--the document that is supposed to represent precisely what transpires in court--is hand-written by Justice Lugayizi. There is no video, there is no tape recorder, there is no stenographer. Anything that an attorney or judge might later wish to review will be in the form of hand-written notes. And much as a judge may try, he or she cannot possibly record everything that is said, particularly after it has been filtered through an interpreter who is paraphrasing the words of the accused or a witness.

To my mind, this is the most glaring problem in Uganda's courts. Without a true, accurate, and dependable court record, the administration of justice is impeded to a degree that would have every case in American courts thrown out on appeal were they tried by Ugandan standards.

Yet here, due to a lack of resources or funding or innovation, trials proceed. And as they do, more problems are revealed.

***

When Justice Lugayizi finishes reading the charges, he asks the man, "What do you have to say to these charges?"

Through the interpreter a response comes: "I don't know about them."

You or I understand the correct answer to this question is "Guilty" or "Not Guilty." But because the defendant has not been to court before, has not had the luxury of seeing this type of drama unfold in a fictitious setting on television, and most glaringly because he has inadequate legal representation, he does not know how to answer this simplest of questions.

His attorney, a lawyer who privately practices but has been appointed by the state to represent this specific defendant for which she will be paid a pittance--probably no more than $15 for the entire case--has little motivation to expend energy on behalf of the accused.

Therefore, it is likely that as trial begins the defendant and attorney are meeting for the first time, and the attorney's familiarity with the case doesn't go beyond the fifteen minutes or so she might have spent reviewing the file prior to court.

It is obvious that the most basic legal counseling along the lines of "When the judge asks you to answer the charges, you say 'Not Guilty,'" has not occurred. The obligations of the attorney have not been fulfilled, and it is possible that the defendant will pay with years of his life because he does not understand the nature of the proceedings.

After asking the question several different ways through an interpreter, Justice Lugayizi finally elicits a satisfactory response from the defendant: "I didn't do it."

***

The first witness called is the victim, Esther, an eight-year old girl who was only six at the time of the alleged crime. Her serious and thoughtful eyes scan the courtroom are awake with wonder. The dark wood, the ornately-robed judge, the policemen, and the visitors to the court compose a scene entirely new to her, and at times it seems as though the setting overwhelms her.

The first thing that Justice Lugayizi must do prior to questioning by the prosecutor is to ascertain whether Esther understands the nature of an oath. This is crucial because it will determine whether or not corroborating evidence is necessary in order to satisfy the burden of proof.

When asked if she knows what an oath is, she balks. Her eyes wander the courtroom, and she looks to her mother, but she is alone, and she must answer the question herself.

"No." Her voice is nearly inaudible, but when asked to speak up, it rises softly above the hum of fans and the distant sound of traffic and pedestrians on the streets outside.

"What would God do if you told a lie?" Justice Lugayizi asks.

The girls eyes search the courtroom again. She is keenly aware of the presence of the accused man.

"Do you know what God would do if you told a lie?" Justice L's voice is gentle, a father of six and grandfather of two, he has dealt with young children before, but Esther remains silent. She is the center of attention in this new and strange place.

Perhaps the only familiar things here are her mother, who sits next to her while Justice Lugayizi ascertains if this eight-year old understands the significance of testifying under oath, and the man accused of defiling her. With a sideward glance at him across the courtroom, she sees him, but does not ever fully turn to face him.

"Would your mother be upset if you told a lie?"

"Yes," she says, only a whisper.

"Why would she be upset?"

Esther shrugs her shoulders.

"How do you know your mother would be upset," Justice Lugayizi asks.

"Because she beats me." No one in the courtroom flinches.

In America, this answer from a child in a court would likely get the girl taken from her parents by Family Services. While what you or I imagine a beating to be is likely different from that of a Ugandan, whatever is conjured does not alarm anyone in the courtroom. The beating of a child for lying not only seems to be acceptable, but an understood part of the culture.

After further probing does not reveal Esther's clear understanding of the meaning of an oath, Justice Lugayizi determines that her testimony will not be under oath, but she can still answer questions of the attorneys.

***

At different times during the girl's description of how she was raped, her mother buries her face in her hands. Her tear-streaked cheeks expose her pain as she must sit next to her daughter and listen to the horrific testimony, but she cannot speak with her, and she cannot touch or comfort her daughter.

The direct and cross-examination continues for nearly 30 minutes, at the conclusion of which, the details of what exactly transpired remains murky. The testimony is rife with inconsistency, and issues as simple as where the girl currently lives are plagued with confusion.

But a few things are clear. Without further evidence, the man will almost certainly be found not guilty; the language barrier in these courts--while certainly understandable as a product of Uganda's tribal origins and colonial past--represents a significant obstacle to the administration of justice; the preparation on the part of both attorneys would, at the very least, suffer scrutiny of the most untrained American eye, and at most, is a criminally gross miscarriage of justice.

Ultimately, it amounts to this: In a court of law, an eight-year old girl told that she was raped. The man accused of the crime may spend the next 20 years of his life in prison although the evidence is sparse. Or he may go free even though he repeatedly raped a six-year old in her own home.

This case has not yet been resolved, but it is indicative of the confusion and difficulties that characterize the criminal cases of Uganda's High Court.

Time to go Home

This will be my last post from Africa, but I will continue to tell some of the stories from my time here over the next week or two upon my return to the states. I hope you've enjoyed them so far, and that you keep reading.

***

You see people wearing sports jerseys everywhere in Africa. Terrell Owens, Albert Pujols, Scott Rolen (he's big in Tanzania), Brett Favre. I'd seen Miami Hurricanes shorts, Sacramento Kings jerseys, New York Yankees hats, and even an Oregon State Beavers 2004 football t-shirt. But in 66 days here, I hadn't seen a single Seattle sports franchise. Until today.

As I was walking to the internet cafe where I'm typing this to send a few last emails and post one more blog entry, I saw a guy wearing a Seattle Mariners jersey. Number 29. Which was Phil Bradley's number, my favorite player when I first learned what baseball is and began going to Mariners games.

Going to Mariners games at the old Kingdome is one of the first vivid memories I have, and still one of my fondest.

To see that jersey today seemed a fitting end to my time here.

It's time to head home.

The Wheels of Justice Lugayizi

One of the perks of being a judge in Uganda is the car and driver that accompanies the position. Every judge in the High Court has a personal driver to bring him to and from court, to drive him to evening engagements, or even take a clerk of the court to the airport. The car of choice for the courts is a Mitsubishi Pajero, which is an SUV that looks a lot like a Range Rover.

Justice Lugayizi is very generous with this privilege; if any occasion calls for a car, he is quick to offer up its services. I assumed that last Friday when Justice Lugayizi took me and my colleague out to lunch to commemorate the end of our time in the courts would be no different.

Justice Lugayizi’s driver, however, was not available. Every Friday, Justice Lugayizi’s wife employs the car and driver to get her weekly chores done, e.g., go the market, pick up dry cleaning, etc. Whether this constitutes a misappropriation of the vehicle is not for me to decide.

“Can we walk to the restaurant?” I asked Justice Lugayizi.

He chuckled. “Oh no, Shan, we will drive. I have my car.”

Oh.

Led downstairs by Justice Lugayizi’s bodyguard John, we followed Justice L out into the front drive of the courthouse where his car was parked. Let me say that there is something very cool about following a judge who is led by his bodyguard anywhere. It attracts attention in Kampala, and the feeling doesn’t get old—at least it didn’t in the first two months.

In the front drive, John led us to a silver Mercedes-Benz, like the one pictured. I’m not sure of the year or model, but it was in pristine condition. If I’d had my camera, I would have taken a picture of Justice Lugayizi behind the wheel.

That’s right, he drives. Not his bodyguard. John just opens the door and rides shotgun, which is appropriate because he is a bodyguard and carries a weapon at all times.

The last thing that should be noted is that in Uganda, people drive on the opposite side of the road, and steering wheels are on the right side of the car. But Justice Lugayizi’s Benz is an American model, so the steering column is on the left side.

I asked him, “Justice Lugayizi, do you need a special permit or license to drive a car with the wheel on the wrong side?”

“No, Shan. But even if you did, I am a judge. They would not do anything to me.” Then he laughed. He was joking. But not really.

Because that’s how he rolls.

I Got Caught Up

Sorry for the long delay. An explanation:

A necessary drawback of an east facing balcony with a beautiful view of the BELL Lager building is that the rest of Kampala is not visible from there, particularly the setting sun in the west.

Accordingly, to get pictures of the sun going down in Kampala, I needed a different, more advantageous vantage. The obvious choice was the tallest building in Kampala’s central district, the Price Waterhouse building, which conveniently is right across the street from my apartment.

From a reliable source, I learned that access to the building’s roof didn’t require John McClane-like heroics. My source further assured me that the view from the roof would give me the desired elevation and angle for the picture. This was going to be easy.

This was a decision I came to regret.

***

I decided last Friday, the 17th, would be a good time to “visit” the roof. Because the sun sets around 7:00 p.m., the business day would be over, and subsequently, there would be fewer people in the building. Also, it was the end of the work week, so security should be, I reasoned, at a minimum.

All of my colleagues had left Kampala for travels over the weekend, so this was a solo mission. Yippie-Kai-A!

When I got off the elevator on the building’s 15th floor, I walked to the stairwell, past the security guard without paying him attention, and up the stairs to the roof. I didn’t know what the baby-faced security guard would say to a 6’1” muzungu wearing cargo pants with a conspicuous bag concealing a camera slung tight over the shoulder. I had visited Freddy’s Parlour the day prior, so the fade, as they say, was tight. This completed the military look.

In retrospect, my choice of attire wasn’t clearly thought out. If I was a security guard in Kampala, someone dressed like me is exactly the type of suspicious character you wouldn’t want on the roof of the Communications House. I did not consider this ahead of time. In any case, I flew by the guard and up the stairs.

I knew that once on the roof there was an additional tower that could be reached by climbing the 10-meter ladder. I knew that once I got to the top of the ladder, I wouldn’t want to look down until both feet were firmly planted on the tower. Perhaps I should mention that, in addition to my source, I had scouted the location. It might as well have been Nakatomi Plaza.

On top of the roof, I took maybe the best picture of the trip (Bell Lager sign in the background). I also took one of my balcony from above. (*All pictures have been redacted from this posting for security reasons. That, and they confiscated the camera. Sorry, Dad.)

It was a great view, and worth the climb. It, however, was not worth another visit to one of Kampala’s police stations—this time unscheduled.

***

It couldn’t have been more than an hour from the time Babyface peered over the top of the ladder to when I found myself at Central Kampala Police Station.

Central, as it’s called, is kind of like the Lira Road Police Station I detailed in an earlier post. But on steroids. Bigger, louder, more cramped, and more chaotic. After being patted down and having my phone and my camera taken away, I was quickly escorted to one of those cylinder-holding cells I described in the Lira Road post.

To quickly rehash, it’s like a Coke can eight meters in diameter with a conical top. The door was like aluminum siding and there were two grated windows, probably no more than two feet by two.

When I was “escorted” into the cell—remember, this whole thing started with me wanting pictures of the sunset—it was comfortably cool and not baking those on the inside. This, of course, meant it was dark. Nearly pitch black. I moved to an empty space on the wall and sat down.

There is no way to describe how it feels to be put in a cell in a foreign country with a group of men you cannot see.

That night I did not get a good count on the number of cellmates in the Coke can. And I did not get any sleep.

***

Early during the arresting process, I chose not to mention to the officers the fact that I was working in the courts. The decision not to involve Justice Lugayizi in this seemed a natural one to me at the time—this was not his problem, he need not become involved. I made this decision at about 7:30 p.m. in the Security Room of the Price Waterhouse building.

Perhaps I should have.

By the time I got to thinking about things more clearly, it was probably 10 p.m. and I was in a dark, cylindrical cell, sitting on a dirt floor, my legs brought up against my chest, trying to limit the amount of skin exposed to the onslaught of mosquitoes and other creeping, crawling creatures. It was also about this time that it occurred to me none of my colleagues would know that I was missing because they were out of town. Had my roommate, Daniel, been staying in Kampala, he would have known something was up by the end of the night. As things were, it was likely no one would have any idea I was missing until Monday morning when I was supposed to be back in court.

I considered bringing my affiliation with the court to the attention of my jailers at the time, but near as I could tell, there were no jailers anywhere about, and if there had been, I imagine my pleas would have sounded a lot like crying to my cellmates, and I definitely didn’t want that. Instead I just sat, eyes open, trying to look as tough as possible. Seriously.

***

The morning light brought optimism. It also gave me an opportunity to properly assess the cell and the men inside it. Since I entered, I had not moved from the place I originally sat down, except to shift my weight or stretch my legs. Some of the men were still sleeping when light crept in, so perhaps it was this that set me a bit at ease. Whatever it was, I did not fear the men in the cell. They looked more tired and worn than anything else. Their only interest in me, it seemed, was that I didn’t look like any of them.

The sun came up around 7 a.m that morning. Within two hours, a bar of sliced light was hitting the floor just to my left. As the sun climbed higher, the rectangle of light moved across the floor of the cell, and the heat began to sap my will to do just about anything, except maybe speak to a police officer.

At what I guess was about 10 a.m., a guard opened the door and set a tray with six bowls—one for each man—on the ground. Five were quickly scooped up and devoured, the men using their fingers as utensils. I grabbed my bowl and sat with it, but did not eat.

From the first step I had taken inside the cell the night previous, the dank odor of dirt mixed with body sweat mixed with the smell coming from the hole in the ground and the bucket next to it had consumed my thoughts. The smell could not be ignored. It also served as a reminder that I might be in there a while, and if I had to go to the bathroom, it was going to happen there. Two men had gone during the night, and with each answer of nature’s call, the smell of human waste mixed and was airborne again.

Maybe Hans Gruber’s fate wasn’t so bad after all.

Hoping to avoid "stomach issues," I chose not to eat. Instead, I offered my bowl to the oldest man in the cell. I figured he had to be at least 70, and he was worse for wear. By giving him my food, I reasoned, I could generate some respect from the other men in the cell. It’s unclear whether this worked, but for his part, the old man, whose only English, as near as I can tell, was “thank you,” seemed appreciative.

***

By 3 p.m. that afternoon (or thereabouts), thirst, the heat, and the smell were crushing my will. I knew that 48 hours was as long as someone arrested could be held in the cell. Legally. It hadn’t yet been 24 hours and already I felt like I was going to lose it.

Two of my cellmates were taken out later that afternoon, and replaced by two others. The new guys seemed to know each other, but also seemed to have little interest in me, or anything else going on in the cell.

At one point as the sun was going down I tried to speak to a guard to tell him I needed to speak with an officer, to speak with anyone who could understand English. He had little interest in what I was saying, and I did not see another guard again that day.

After nearly 24 hours, I had not given a statement, I had not been questioned, I had not had the opportunity to call anyone.

***

Night brought relief from the heat, but the bugs were back, and it was at this time that I realized I had missed my malaria medication that morning, as I always took it on Saturday when I woke up. This is not a pleasant thought when mosquitoes are treating you like a buffet. But then again, neither is jail.

The second night passed much as the first, although I was able to sleep a bit. Very lightly. Each time I dozed off, I awoke with a start to find that this horror was actually taking place. But I tried to find a silver lining.

I had managed to avoid having to use the bucket or hole. The risk of getting sick from the food was enough to put my hunger to rest, and the fear of the water was greater than my thirst. I reasoned that I could last another day without either. And at some point, someone had to speak to me.

***

With sunrise on the second day, Sunday, I was determined to make my case. Early in the day, I walked to one of the windows and looked out. There seemed to be no one around. I stood there for what must have been an hour. I did not see a single uniformed person.

When our meal was brought, I tried to reason with the guard. He stopped briefly as I quickly tried to explain my position. He was not interested.

Like the day before, I gave my food to the old man.

In the afternoon, the old man was moved from the cell. When this happened, I pleaded as forcefully as I could with the guard taking him away. He looked exactly like the dad from Family Matters, Carl Winslow, so I figured he would be nice.

“I need to speak with someone. I’ve been in here two days. I know the law. You can’t hold me in here more than 48 hours.” This last sentence seemed to get his attention, but he did not say anything as he led the old man away, who was also the closest thing I had to a friend.

About an hour later, a separate man arrived to get me. The sun, although it was going down, blinded me as I stepped into the light for the first time since heading off to take pictures Friday evening.

“Can I talk to you? I haven’t been charged with anything. Why am I here?”

“Trespassing,” he said. Oh yeah. “I need to talk with someone.” No response.

He led me into the main building of the station where a crowd of officers and arrestees and complainants mixed chaotically in the front room of the station. He led me past them and down a long hallway. Some of the doors in the hall were open with men who looked like detectives sitting behind desks.

“Can I talk to one of them?” Nothing. “Please, I need to talk to someone.”

From the cell I had been in to the one he took me was a bit like passing from one circle of hell to the next. The smell was not as foul, but it was hot and I was alone. This last fact—I would have thought—should have put me at ease. It did not.

When the cell door clanged, I found myself in a windowless room with no lights. Solitary. I was in solitary confinement. After only a minute or two, I was convinced I heard the scurrying of a rat or some other rodent on the ground. At this point, I nearly lost it.

I stood and started kicking wildly in the dark at something that may not have been there. For probably ten minutes, I kicked frantically, trying to systematically cover every inch of the cell so that if something was there, it knew that it could not hide. All the while, a torrent of profanity rained down on the unseen menace. Had someone been watching, they certainly would have believed I was crazy. And in a way, I kind of was.

Exhausted from the tirade, I collapsed on the floor, and I am not ashamed to admit that I started crying. It was, without question, the worst moment of my life. I have felt hopeless and defeated at times, but never like this. They were tears of exhaustion and frustration and regret and anger.

When the tears stopped, I was as spent as I have ever been. If anything, I was too tired to cry anymore. I hadn’t had food or water in two days. I had slept maybe only an hour or two since Friday morning. It was nearly 8 p.m. on Sunday night.

Then, I did something I have not done in years. I prayed.

I prayed that if someone had made it this far in the story, they would have guessed, by now, that much of what they had just read is not true.

That’s right. It didn’t really happen—at least not all of it.

Sorry.

I just needed a good excuse for why I haven’t written anything on this blog in over a week and a half. I was on safari in Tanzania. Then I sat on a beach for a few days in Zanzibar. They were amazing experiences, which I’ll share later, but I was not going to interrupt them to add posts here.

And I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to have a little fun at the expense of my friends. I guess old habits die hard.

Besides, you didn’t think I’d actually cry and then tell you about it?

Wheels of Justice, Part IV: "Day in Court"

The first day of the criminal court session is one of formality and
administration. The cases to be tried during the session—for this
session that is scheduled to last 30 days there are 29 cases—simply
need to be scheduled at a time convenient for the lawyers who will be
trying each case, and then the cases are placed on the court’s
calendar.

A cursory review of the list of cases reveals troubling statistics:
the charges in thirteen of the 29 cases—almost 45%—to be tried over
the next month are either defilement or aggravated defilement. The
American equivalent of statutory rape, defilement is the most common
crime among the capital offenses of Uganda, which means it carries a
potential death sentence. Aggravated defilement is statutory rape of
a girl under the age of 14 or when the accused is infected with HIV.
My informal survey of the aggravated defilement cases indicates that
the former is more common than the latter.

The first case to be scheduled, a defilement case, revealed more
troublesome patterns in the Ugandan system. Mukiibi Fred, the young
man who had been accused of rape, had been in prison since October 10,
2007. When he finally stood in front of a judge, it was July 1. This
was likely the first time he had been in a courtroom since charges
were brought against him, more than twenty months earlier.

The young man wore jeans and a faded red t-shirt as he walked to the
dock, a judicial penalty box of sorts, where the accused stands
throughout hearings and trial. Wide-eyed, Mukiibi Fred stood silently
as his state appointed attorney, the prosecutor, and Justice Lugayizi
dispensed the formality of introductions for the court record.

As is the case with many defendants, Fred spoke almost no English, and
it wasn’t until the court reporter translated the proceedings into
Luganda that he understood what was being said.

Prior to each case being placed on the court’s calendar, the charges
against the defendant were read. Although for this case, as happened
for several others that followed, the Directorate of Public
Prosecutions (effectively the district attorney’s office) had
determined that something in the original charges had changed.

When the woman representing Fred introduced herself, Justice Lugayizi
asked why she was now on the other side. Evidently, she had been
formerly employed as a prosecutor, but was now in private practice.
There are no public defenders in Uganda. Therefore, defendants who
cannot afford an attorney are appointed private lawyers who are paid a
pittance to litigate on their behalves. As a result, the
representation for defendants is regularly inadequate.

At the conclusion of her exchange with Justice Lugayizi, she said in
English, “I think my friend will be happy that he is going home
today.” This was not translated.

After a few more minutes of administrative formality, the prosecutor
submitted “No prosci” papers, which is Ugandan-influenced Latin that
effectively dismisses the case. Evidently, there were no
witnesses—including the alleged victim—who could testify, and the
evidence against the accused was spotty, at best.

The papers were handed over to the court reporter who then delivered
them to the judge. Justice Lugayizi reviewed them quickly before
asking if defendant’s counsel had any objections. Justice Lugayizi
then signed the document and returned it to his court reporter with
instructions to deliver it to the Registrar of the High Court.

Then, in English, he pronounced that the charges in the case were dropped.

Prossy, the court reporter, slowly translated into Luganda.

The man with the faded red t-shirt in the dock listened intently.
When Prossy concluded, his eyes showed confusion. Sensing this,
Justice Lugayizi said, in English, “You are going home today.”

When Prossy translated, Mukiibi Fred buried his face in his hands.
After spending 628 days at Luzira Prison, a man who would never face
trial due to lack of evidence, was free.

After leaving the dock, he returned to his seat in a pew among the
others accused of crimes. As he sat there, waiting for the next 28
defendants’ cases to be scheduled, he looked around the courtroom,
eyes wide with wonder, slowly embracing the fact that he would sleep
in his own bed that night.

The Wheels of Justice, Part III: "Questions"

Luzira Prison, Uganda’s largest penitentiary, sprawls over several hundred acres in southwest Kampala. Overlooking fields of maize and the Bugolobi Flats, it is divided among four campuses: the remand prison, the Upper Prison, Victoria Bay, and the women’s prison.

The remand prison is exclusively for men who have been charged with a crime, but have either not yet begun trial or not yet concluded trial. The issue of remand is one of the most glaring problems in the criminal justice system of Uganda.

When I met with the registrar of the High Court a few weeks ago, he told me that when he took over his post last year, there were men who had been “on remand” since 2002. These are men who have not been convicted of a crime, yet remained in prison awaiting trial. Since his time as registrar, the time that prisoners have been on remand the longest has been shortened, but speaking with the prisoners for only a few minutes reveals stories that confound and frustrate.

I spoke with a man (standing, pictured in a maroon shirt) whose story would come as no surprise to anyone familiar with the prison system here. In the picture, he is reading to me the phone number he’s written down, making sure I understand it. His name is Apenyo Brian, and he had been at Luzira for almost two months when we arrived. He told me he had been charged with stealing a cell phone. He didn’t know who his accuser was, and, he insisted, he had not done it. But he had been there for 51 days. And his family did not know where he was—he had no way of contacting them. So he asked a total stranger to do it for him.

Later that afternoon, I tried calling the number. A recording telling me that the phone could not receive calls was the only answer I received. I tried four times over the next several hours. Nothing.

All Brian needed was a family member to show up in court as a surety, vouch for him, and pay the 30,000 Uganda shillings bail would cost. That’s less than $15. But he could not reach friend or family. Nor could I.

Sadly, Brian’s story was more the rule than the exception.

***

With an escort of prison security guards, we walked freely among the inmates and spoke with them. The danger I suspect I would feel doing the same in an American prison was absent here. There is, however, a constant sense that the eyes of hundreds of men who have either been charged with or convicted of a crime follow your every move. While I did not feel unsafe, it was, at least at times, unnerving.

Part of this resulted from the gross overcrowding of the prison. In the Upper Prison, the largest section of Luzira that was designed to house only 600 convicts, there were 2,400 men, half of whom were there on remand. Less than half these men had beds. For some, a bed was a foam pad on the floor. And quarters were cramped.

Imagine your high school’s gymnasium. Picture the basketball court, and cut it in half, lengthwise. Build windowless brick walls up to the ceiling. Then remove the hardwood and replace it with deteriorating concrete. Now imagine 120 grown men, who are lucky if they get a shower every two days, sleeping in that space. Now dig a hole in one corner, and hide it behind a curtain. That’s the bathroom. One door at the end of this concrete court provides the only ventilation.

There is no privacy. There are no mosquito nets. Malaria, tuberculosis, and other forms of illness are rampant.

Among the visitors there is a consensus that we are being shown only the most hospitable parts of Luzira.

The inmates get one meal a day. Whatever image you have in your mind of “prison slop” cooked in giant vats is a near approximation to what these men eat. A member of our group asks if the inmates ever get more than one meal a day if there is extra. The guards think this is funny.

Everywhere we go, men clad in prison issue yellow shirts and shorts stare at us. Some look up from their homemade board games that resemble Parcheesi. Some are gardening in the small plots that border the large courtyard with a dusty soccer field in the middle. But most just stand in small groups, talking, watching the shadows creep, slowly passing time. Some smile, others glare, but most just wonder at the group of muzungus breaking up the monotony of their monotony.

As we walk into the cage that backs onto the front gate through which we’ll exit, I am ready to leave. And it has only been 45 minutes.

***

The next morning, I could not shake the conversation I had with Brian, the man in the maroon shirt. It was a Thursday morning, and his hearing was scheduled for the next day. He needed someone to act as his surety. If no one showed up, he would likely be in prison until his trial begins, which could be months.

Before I headed to court, I called the number once more. It rings this time. And rings.

I was just about to hang up when a man answered, “Yes, please?”

“Hello.” I read the name written on the paper from the day before. “Do you know Apenyo Brian?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know where he is?” I ask.

“No. He is missing.”

“He is in Luzira Prison. He has been there for almost two months,” I say.

“What?”

“He is in Luzira Prison. He was accused of stealing a cell phone.” Silence. I try to explain. “He needs someone to come to the prison or to court to stand as a surety for him.”

“What do I do?”

“Someone needs to come to Kampala, to Luzira Prison so that he can be freed while he awaits trial. He is scheduled to go to Nakawa Court tomorrow. He needs a surety.”

“How do I surety?”

“I don’t know. You must go to the prison or the court to find out.”

“Where is the court?”

“It is in Nakawa.”

“How do I get there?”

“I don’t know. But it is tomorrow. And he needs a friend or family member to show up.”

“What do I do when I show up?”

“I’m not sure, but I think you need money. 30,000 shillings, I think.”

“Is that all I need to do,” he asks. Urgency and confusion are thick in his voice.

“I’m sorry, I have told you all I know.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

“Nakawa Court. Tomorrow. Good luck.” The line goes dead.

Like many people in the criminal system with little knowledge of its inner workings, the man I spoke with had many questions, but the answers were hard to come by.

The Wheels of Justice, Part II: "The First Step"

Leaving the city center along Kira Road, as business establishments begin to give way to street vendors and huts, you come to a roundabout that sends strips of tarmac shooting in all directions. The hub of a paved wheel, four roads run from the roundabout like spokes to the western rim of the country.

If you aren’t paying attention as you approach, you will miss the inconspicuous building hiding behind a row of trees on the left, its façade giving no indication as to the nature of business within. It is the Kira Road Police Station.

If you do manage to pull off before the roundabout, you’ll find the dirt parking lot outside the station a confused mess of cars and motorcycles parked in every direction, some appearing to have taken permanent residence among the patches of weeds and potholes. The arrangement is consistent with the business inside.

At the front desk of the station, the ordered chaos of officers leading shackled prisoners to unknown chambers mixes with the clang and rattle of detainees in their holding cells. Some victims and family members hoping to file complaints sit on wood benches while others clamor for the ear of an officer. The sound is a jumble of rattling metal, English, Luganda, and various dialects, all creating an indiscernible din.

Our host quickly ushers us past the front desk where more arrestees awaiting processing sit on the cement floor. Some sleep while others look up as we pass through the back door of the station into the dirt courtyard.

Outside, the courtyard is a peninsula, surrounded on three sides by the U-shaped station. Two eight-foot tall aluminum cylinders with cone roofs bake in the sun; neither of the three walls of the U provide the cylinders shade. The foul smell of human waste stagnates and arms reach through the barred windows of each cylinder.

They are holding cells, no more than twenty feet in diameter, temporary home to women charged with crimes, but whose immediate fate has yet been decided. The heat of the sweltering midday sun pours off the aluminum roofs.

By law detainees cannot remain in these cells for more than 48 hours, we are told with a wink and smile.

A stairwell along one side of the U leads up to the offices for the OCCID, Officer in Charge of Criminal Investigations Division, and the Divisional Police Commander. From the second floor, you can see over a fence the barracks for officers in the Kira department. The barracks are comprised of row houses and more cylinders like the holding cells for the women.

We are told that to each dwelling two officers and their families are assigned, some cylinders housing as many as fourteen people. At a salary of $75 a month, the free housing is a perk available to officers, one that most take advantage of. Of course, the salary has another indicator. At less than $3 a day, it is not difficult to understand why police officers are frequently linked to corruption in the form of bribery.

A young woman with whom I work at the courthouse recently told me a story of foreigners she knew. The Americans, a couple, had been seen kissing in public by an officer. Told that it was illegal, the officer successfully extorted from them 60,000 Ugandan shillings (about $30 U.S.) in exchange for not being arrested. This thought is firm in my mind as the officer leading us to the OC’s office announces us to him.

The Officer in Charge wears a suit and is intently listening to a briefing as we enter. In the corner, a uniformed officer is addressing the OC, but I can’t make it out through his thick accent.

On the couch opposite the OC’s desk is a child no older than twelve. With short hair and soft features, the dress she wears is the best indicator that it is a young girl. A young man, perhaps eighteen, sits on the floor. His shirt is tattered and his grimy pants are rolled up to his shins, exposing his bare, worn feet.

We stand listening to the officer wrap up his briefing. The OC asks something about HIV. The officer responds, “No.”

The OC indicates that the girl should be taken to her parents, the young man sent home. At this, the officer stands and crisply salutes the OC. He then collects the girl and boy and leads them out of the office.

During our subsequent meeting with the OC, we are told that the officer will complete his investigation prior to charges being brought in the case. We learn that the girl is an alleged rape victim. The young man, the accused. The briefing we heard was the officer’s preliminary findings based on interviews with the boy and the girl. He presented it in front of them. As they sat in the same room together. An arm’s reach apart.

As the wheels of justice turn, this is the first step in a lengthy, sometimes years-long process that will result either in the young man going free or in a conviction that could carry the death sentence.

"Resources are all around us."

Two weekends ago I traveled to Jinja, a city about two hours from Kampala. Jinja touts itself as the Adventure Capital of East Africa. When I visited two weeks prior, I’d gone whitewater rafting down the Nile and bungee jumping. The rafting was amazing, the bungee jumping a mix of terryifying and insane. Before you jump, they weigh you and measure the bungee cord so that you dip into the Nile as the cord reaches max stretch. This is a good way to scare the shit out of yourself for the bargain basement price of $57.50.

I returned to Jinja with Mike, a friend from Pepperdine, to go rafting again and visit the “Source of the Nile.” If you’re like me, when you hear “source of the Nile,” you picture a bubbling spring in a clearing of trees, sunlight streaming through the parting clouds, and maybe the soft sound of angels singing. It’s nothing like that. Instead, the “source” of the Nile is Lake Victoria, and seeing the source is kind of like watching the tide turn. I am also suspicious about this being the Nile’s source, as there are several major tributaries for the Nile, some of them originating further from its termination than Lake Victoria. Long story short, if you ever go to Jinja, skip the gently rippling waters of the source and head for the whitewater.

***

We spent Saturday riding ATVs along the river and through rural villages of mud, brick, and straw huts. Some of the dwellings had small gardens in front. In front of others, goats or cows tethered to a stake in the ground would wander as far as the ropes around one of their legs would permit. Some huts were surrounded by small fields of maize or other local crops. Everywhere we drove, women were hanging laundry out to dry on clotheslines or busying themselves with various chores, men were chopping wood, and children would run barefoot to the edge of the dusty clay road, yelling “Sabo! Sabo! (“Sir! Sir!) as they smiled and waved.

Our passing on the ATVs seemed to be a primary source of entertainment for the children, who wore dirty, tattered clothes, and came with makeshift toys. An old bicycle tire could double as a hula-hoop or a swing. Threshings from the field rolled up and held together by string might make a perfectly serviceable soccer ball. Sometimes the children chewed on an ear of maize or a piece of sugar cane as we passed.

During one stop, I finished the last sips of a plastic bottle of water, and several children immediately asked me for it. I’m not sure if they wanted the bottle so it could be returned for a deposit, if they valued its functionality, or if the children simply hoped to fashion it into some new form of enjoyment.

Regardless of its purpose, their desire to have the bottle reiterates the extreme poverty in which these children grow up—most of their families, frequently more than six to a small hut no bigger than your bedroom, survive on less than a dollar a day. But when you stop to speak or play with the children, they ask your name, they climb on you, and sing the new song they learned in school. You find that their happiness is not clouded by the things they don’t have, because new shoes or a video game system or fancy sunglasses—except for maybe one little boy—aren’t necessities in the true meaning of the word. For the most part, they have everything they really need.

***

After the ATVs, but before the sun hit the horizon, Mike and I decided to “floatswim” down some of the more modest rapids of the Nile below the camp where we were staying. In the picture, I’m giving the international sign for “I didn’t just drown” as Mike is waving to the imaginary throngs of spectators applauding our daring feat. During my floatswim, I sliced my forearm open on a rock. This isn’t a good thing for all the obvious reasons, but also because the Nile isn’t what I’d call “sanitary.”

Back at our lodging, I tried to clean it as best I could, but I didn’t have any hydrogen peroxide or other cleaning agent.

Later that night at the bar, I struck up a conversation with a Ugandan man who worked with a non-profit organization called SoftPower. SoftPower’s goal is to teach young children basic skills for the 21st Century. Because technology is foreign to most rural communities in Uganda, the program provides children basic computer skills, for example, how to use a mouse, the function of the cursor, and how to browse the internet. SoftPower has follow-up sessions to ensure the children are retaining what they are being taught.

The man, named Kibiina (pronounced “Chi-bee-nuh” or “Cheeby” for short) originally was a fisherman on Lake Victoria, but had come to Jinja to work as a whitewater raft guide. When he realized the river liked holding him underwater for long periods of time, he decided teaching was a better profession for him.

Our conversation led to the river, which prompted me to show him the battle wound on my forearm. He asked if it had been cleaned, and when I told him “not really,” he diagnosed the inch-long gash and decided to track down one of the raft guides to see if he could access the first-aid kit. When he found that he could not, a smile spread across his face, “You know, Shan, resources are all around us.”

Cheeby grabbed me gently by the arm the way Ugandan men do sometimes when they want to make sure you are listening. He looked at me seriously from underneath the brim of his straw hat and spoke with a trace of a lisp.

“A few years ago, my uncle saved up money and bought a car, but after he got it home, it wouldn’t work. All my cousins were upset with him and told him he’d been cheated. But my uncle said ‘No!’” Cheeby raised his index finger, mimicking his uncle’s gesture.

“You see, Shan, the car had no fan belt. But my uncle would not accept that his car would not work. He had to do something. So he got a thin nylon rope. You see, he’d seen a fan belt before, so from his memory, he knew what it looked like and how it was supposed to work.”

Cheeby set his beer down, underscoring the significance of what was to come next.

“He took the rope and weaved it into what? A fan belt. And do you know what, Shan? It worked!” Cheeby stepped back and smiled, as if he couldn’t believe it himself. “So you see, he knew what he needed, but he could not find a fan belt. There are no fan belts where he lived. So he created a fan belt from a rope.”

I couldn’t help but smile at Cheeby’s passion for ingenuity.

“We can do so much if we use what is around us. We may not have what we would like, but we can fix cars and we can teach children all the same.” Cheeby brought his forefinger to his mouth, as if to hush himself in deep thought. Then his eyes fell to my arm. "And we can clean your arm. We’ll use spirits.”

I know that witch doctors are still commonplace here, but I must have looked skeptical and Cheeby noticed. “Come on, let’s go to the bar,” he said.

Never a bad thing, I followed him, still unsure how these mystical “spirits” he spoke of were going to cure my arm.

“What do you take,” he asked me.

“I’ll take a Bell.”

“No, not a Bell. You need something stronger.”

If getting drunk was going to help us channel spirits, then by all means. “What do you take?” I asked Cheeby.

Now he looked at me puzzled. “The spirit is for you.”

“Spirit?”

A smile came over Cheeby’s face as he comprehended my confusion. “Alcohol. For your arm. We are going to clean your arm with alcohol. A spirit.”

Ohhhh. I looked at the barman. “What’s the strongest proof you have?”

The barman grabbed a dusty bottle off the shelf, a clear liquid behind a foreign label. Cheeby was smiling as he prepared a napkin to use as a swab.

“Shan, the spirit is high in alcohol. It should disinfect the wound and you can clean it again tomorrow.” He put his hand on my shoulder as the barman poured a shot into a glass. “The best part is that what you don’t use to clean the wound, you drink.”

“Cheeby, I like your style.”

Cheeby smiled again. “You know, Shan, we get concerned with what we think we need, and lose sight of what we have. Resources are all around us. We just need to see them.”

Independence Day

In 1987, the Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA) attacked the Sacred Hearts Girls Boarding School in Gulu, a town in northern Uganda. This attack marked the beginning of the LRA’s two-decades-long campaign of terror in that region.

On Saturday, I traveled with other Pepperdine students to Gulu District, about 175 miles north of Kampala, just south of the Uganda-Sudan border. Our destination was an International Displaced Persons camp not far from Sacred Hearts School.

IDP camps like the one we visited are scattered across the north, scars from the violent movement of the LRA, which has been accused of human rights violations including murder, rape, mutilation, enslavement, and the conscription of children soldiers. At the rebellion’s peak, more than a half-million Ugandans had been displaced by the raids of the LRA and were living in these camps.

Only within the last few years has some semblance of peace returned to the region, and even as we traveled there on Saturday, I read a story in the Daily Monitor about rumors of a shadow rebel group building forces in the secluded thickets of northern Uganda.

Led first by Alice Lakwena and more famously by Joseph Kony, the LRA is a guerilla army whose stated goal is to overthrow the Uganda government and usurp the powers of President Yoweri Museveni. Kony, who proclaims to be a vessel of God, is wanted by the International Criminal Court for his part as leader of the LRA, which is still operating in southern Sudan.

The raids by the LRA on northern Ugandan villages followed a basic pattern. Elders were killed or maimed, the latter taking the form of noses, ears, and lips being cut off by machete. Women and young girls who weren't killed were raped and enslaved as concubines; some traded for arms. Young men and boys were taken captive and indoctrinated, often forced to fight and kill members of their own tribe. Reports also indicate that the children, once inculcated, were employed in the killing of former family and tribe members. Throughout much of its reign, the army was composed predominantly of young children, most of an age that should have them climbing trees, some as young as five.

When Kony and his generals sent these children into battle, they would first paint with nut oil a cross on their chests, telling them it would protect them from bullets. It is estimated that thousands of Ugandan children were killed during battle for the LRA, an organization the US government characterizes as a terrorist group.

The people we encountered at the IDP camp know firsthand of the terror. Although I was ignorant of its significance at the time, on Saturday I met a woman without a nose, presumably a victim of one of the raids.

The woman and man pictured above, mother and son, have been in the camp for years, forced from their homes by the LRA. They, like many others, remain in the camp because the infrastructure there is better than the skeleton of a village that was once their home.

Most of the young children in the camp we visited have spent their entire lives there. This means that they have never flipped a light switch or used a toilet. The bathroom is not a "room" and certainly has no bath. It is a hole in the ground. A distant well is the closest thing they know to running water.

The camps are also supported by non-government organizations, but the NGOs have created a dependency that hasn’t allowed for the development of skills, markets of trade, and self-subsistence that is necessary for the villages of northern Uganda to flourish again.

While thousands have returned to their villages to begin the slow rebuilding process, the camps are a preferable alternative for many. Although the camps were originally to be a temporary haven protected by the Ugandan army from the LRA, because they have lived there for years, the inhabitants of the camps have created homes there. And their idea of peace and freedom lacks the permanence that you or I associate with it.

A man quoted in Saturday’s Monitor articulated a fear that keeps many from returning to the freedom of village life they once knew. “I was abducted and survived death among LRA rebels,” he said. “And now this new group will completely kill my hope to return home.” The man, 46, lives in an IDP camp that was once home to 21,000.

Hearing his story and speaking with the people in the camp we visited, you get a very clear sense of what independence actually means, and how fickle a thing like freedom can be.

This Fourth of July, I did not see any fireworks, I did not go to a barbecue, and I did not listen to any patriotic songs. But once again, I came to appreciate in an entirely new way, just how fortunate I am to call America home.

The Wheels of Justice

I can’t believe I’ve been here five weeks. During my time with Justice Lugayizi and the week I spent at the prosecutor's office, I’ve been exposed to many facets of the criminal justice system of Uganda. I’ve visited a police station here in Kampala, spent a week with federal prosecutors, worked intimately with Justice Lugayizi in the High Court, and we plan to visit Luzira Prison in the next two weeks. Each of these experiences has helped frame a sometimes blurry picture of the Ugandan system. At times, it seems like the separate parts of the system—the police, the prosecutors, the courts—are separate wheels, each spinning at its own rate, not necessarily in concert. Over the next few weeks, I’ll try to present snapshots of what I’ve seen and learned.

***

Part I

Four weeks ago, Justice Lugayizi heard the appeal of a man convicted of indecent assault of a nine-year old girl. More accurately, Justice L heard the appeal of the convicted man’s lawyer. The man, a teacher at the school the girl attended, was “sick”; at least that’s what his lawyer told the judge. The hearing proceeded. (That hearing is detailed in a post titled “We came to do business this morning” from May 30.)

Last Wednesday when the judgment regarding the man’s appeal was to be read, the convicted man was again absent, this time his lawyer informing Justice Lugayizi that his client was “bed-ridden” and hadn’t been up for two months. Again, Justice Lugayizi proceeded all the same.

If it seems strange to you that a man would not appear in court on the day he might be exonerated for the crime of indecently assaulting a young girl and subsequently set free, it should. That’s because when you are convicted of a crime like statutory rape in America, you go to prison. You have the option to appeal that conviction, and if the appeal is heard, you remain in prison unless your conviction is overturned. The same is not true here.

In Uganda, after an appeal hearing is granted, a convict can seek bail. If the judge grants bail, a man convicted of molesting a child can be released even though he has not served the duration of his sentence and his conviction has not been overturned. (Justice Lugayizi did not grant this man bail. In fact, Justice L no longer presides over bail hearings for reasons that should be somewhat obvious if you remember his experience with the Black Mambas, detailed in an earlier posting.)

There could be many reasons that the teacher was not in court last Wednesday. While he very well may have been bed-ridden, it seems more likely that he didn’t show up because a judgment against him would land him in prison immediately. Instead, as Justice Lugayizi was pronouncing the teacher’s fate, he was at home, allegedly sick in bed.

The conviction was upheld, and the man who was convicted by a magistrate of undressing his nine-year old student and touching her private parts was ordered back to prison. As it stands, he is hundreds of kilometers away from Luzira Prison, in the western Uganda district of Beshirye.

After his chambers cleared, I asked Justice Lugayizi how long it would take for the man to be sent back to prison. He told me he didn’t know.

Shortly thereafter, the state attorney returned to Justice Lugayizi’s chambers to pick up a signed copy of the judgment and take it to the Registrar. The Registrar of the High Court then will note the judgment in the official record and send a copy of the judgment to police headquarters in the district of Beshirye. From there, the police will arrest the man. At least, that’s how the wheels are supposed to turn.

It is possible, however, that the man will remain free. Sometimes, the police will show up to arrest a person who knows they are coming, and will learn that the person no longer lives at the residence of record. Maybe his family or villagers are hiding him. Sometimes, the arresting officers will be told that the man is dead. Because records of such things aren’t strictly monitored, the trail may end there.

It may be that a man who was convicted of indecent assault of a nine-year old girl and sentenced to three years in prison will live free the rest of his life, never serving out his sentence.

How was your day?

I spent last week working at the Directorate of Public Prosecution’s office as a break from the High Court. It was an eye-opening experience, much of which I’ll document later.

During my time there, I, along with the other Pepperdine student I’m clerking with, traveled to a DPP office in Masaka, about three hours from Kampala with our host, Jane. On the way to Masaka, we stopped at the equator. As you can see from the picture, when I roll to the equator, I dress for the occasion. You never know who you might run into in the southern hemisphere. The woman I’m with is Jane Francis, a state attorney for the DPP’s office.

Jane was our chaperone for the week. She’s an amazing lady whose daily life reveals both the burden placed on the women of Uganda and a little something about the politics of this country.

She is one of eleven children to her biological mother. Her father had seven wives and 45 children. When Jane was married to a man from her district in northern Uganda, as is customary of her tribe, cattle was paid by her husband as a dowry. 72 cows. When I asked how they arrived at the number 72, she told me that there is a certain allocation for each relative. Six for her mother, four for her father. One for each whole brother, three for each of her biological grandmothers, two for each biological grandfather, and at least one for each of her step-mothers and step-grandparents. So that’s how you get to 72.

Jane married well. Her husband is an ambitious man who sought to represent his region as a Member of Parliament. Against Jane’s wishes, he ran and was elected as an MP in 2006. If you can’t understand why a woman wouldn’t want her husband to be elected to a prominent position in government, affording her and her family opportunities only dreamed of by most Ugandans, just keep reading.

Prior to his election, Jane and her husband purchased land about a two-hour commute from Kampala, and moved there with their two children. When I asked her about her home, she described a sprawling estate with guest quarters, a veranda, and plenty of space for her children to play. These are some of the perks that come with being an MP, presumably.

The drawbacks will soon become apparent.

***

Last week as we were driving to Masaka, Jane told us the story of a man from her husband’s village that had been staying with her and her husband. That morning, the man had learned that his eight-month old child had died from malaria the night previous. Malaria is rampant in this country killing tens of thousands of children a year, and afflicting millions more. Experts say many of these deaths could be prevented with mosquito nets. They cost ten dollars. That is more than a week's salary for many Ugandans.

Earlier in the week, a woman in the DPP’s office met with us on Monday morning, but told us she wouldn’t see us again until Wednesday. She had to go to the doctor; she was getting sick. Only later did we learn she had malaria. When we had lunch with her on Thursday, we wondered how she knew she had malaria before going to the doctor.

“You learn what it feels like when it’s coming on,” she told us.

How many times have you had it?

“I don't know. I get it every few months.”

The infant who died, obviousy, did not have the experience of knowing what malaria felt like, nor the ability to inform her parents. By the time they figured it out, it was too late. So the morning that the man learned his daughter had died, Jane drove him to the bus station and paid for his day-long journey back home.

She seemed a bit angry with the man, and it wasn’t until she explained that we understood why.

The man had learned a week earlier that his child had malaria. He did not return home. He had been staying with Jane and her husband since February, since his daughter was three-months old, and at no time before had he tried to get back home.

Why had he been at Jane’s for five months?

When constituents vote for an MP, they feel like they have done something for that person and that the man or woman they have elected is indebted to them. For that reason, many of an MP’s electors will expect something in return. This often manifests itself in the form of an unannounced, prolonged visit.

So how many people are staying at your home, Jane?

“I don’t know, Shan.”

You don’t know how many people are staying at your house?

“Probably twenty. Or more.”

These people that come “visit” often stay for months at a time. They expect to be fed. They expect a place to sleep. When Hotel Jane reaches maximum occupancy, they sleep outside. And when they leave, they often take "mementos" with them. Jane says she buys new sheets every three months.

The “guests” do not pay for their food. They do not work. When they are finished with their meal, they will wait for someone to clear the plate from in front of them. If asked to do anything, like say, fetch water from the well, they complain. Not just to Jane, but to their family and friends when they finally decide to head back home. For that reason Jane employs two girls to help her, because she cannot possibly do it alone.

On a normal day, Jane wakes before 6 a.m. to get her kids up and get them ready for school. She drives them the two hours into Kampala and drops them off before getting to work between 8:30 and 9. Remember, this woman is a federal prosecutor. From her arrival at work until she leaves around 4:30 p.m., she is either in her office reviewing files and preparing for court, or actually in court arguing cases. That is, of course, when she’s not chaperoning two American law students across western Uganda. She’s also doing whatever else her boss asks of her.

The day we went to Masaka, she was asked to bring him a female fish. (How do you know if a fish is female? Look up its skirt. Or ask the guys in the picture.) Only, because she was busy keeping us occupied and buying two 50-lb. bags of charcoal—remember, she’s cooking for more than 20 people every night—she forgot to get the fish. The girl fish. So at 5 p.m. when we were returning to Kampala and she remembered the fish, we had to drive to Lake Victoria and visit Gabba Market. By the time she dropped us off, it was 6 p.m. on Friday night. She still had to drop off the fish for her boss, who had tired of waiting and gone home. Then pick up her kids. Then drive the two hours home. Then prepare a meal for 20+ people. Then put her kids to bed. Only then, maybe, could she rest, put her feet up, and have a well-deserved drink.

Just not in her sitting room. There was a soccer match that night, and the men who consume 30,000 Ugandan shillings worth of beer every day (about 30 beers) would be watching.