If you could give me a moment and try to ask me what it is_
a life away from your country, with no hope and plan to go back because you are
running for life, and find yourself in the middle of nowhere or somewhere you
think you can or may survive if God is on your side_ then I will tell you about
Nakivale, the refugee camp.
Till last month, if you asked me about a refugee camp,
nothing would come to my mind other than an imagination of crowds, all of
different races from different corners; if any_ of the world in some small
confinement, with hardly any kind of organization or control of such masses
especially because of lack in the language that they speak. I used to think that they sleep under tents,
their life is very miserable and that the only support they could get was from
the government. In summation, all I
thought about the camp or refugee settlement for that matter was a mess!
But now I greatly compliment the wise man who phrased that “Don’t judge a book by its cover!” He
must have been ingenious indeed. Little is known about the folded pages till
they are turned. I mean sometimes some
things are not that exactly that they seem to be like the first time when our eyes
catch them. Sometimes it goes beyond our imagination; sometimes it is pretty
bigger than we think!
There in the west of my country, my motherland, and the
pearl of Africa, Uganda, settles a number of districts; and Mbarara is the
commonest among all probably for its great number of cattle, and milk products
or the plenty banana plantations, which yield many bunches such as seen in the
principle markets of Kampala_ or even because of the famous university, MUST.
But in the male conversations, I often hear gentlemen talk about the beautiful,
delightful; and jolly ladies of western Uganda. This too, perhaps makes the
town well known, I suppose! What do all men, after all, in this world look for?
We are all men of beauty and we all look for the most beautiful. However, I did
not go to the west to look myself the beautiful. Instead, I went to break the
mystery and satisfy my curiosity about what I ever or never heard about the refugees
that was cooking up within my inner self.
At around four or five at sunset, our boots crunched on the
congealed gravel of Mbarara Bus Park. Hildburg,
the lady who took us with her, because she wanted to deliver a certain package
to the refugees; but needed our company because she could not travel that long
way that it was in such a strange world( I must say though tenderly; for it’s
the same world still), shot her eyes into the sky and looked admiringly at the
setting sun, which seemed like an orange ball falling behind the hills that
seemed to touch the sky, and the rays of the sun to touch the clouds gently
across the sky that gave light to the hills on the side that we faced, so as it
bonded with the galaxy that appeared so colored and buried in nothing but
beauty of its own Maker. It was really a sunset of great beauty! She had never
experienced such a beauty of the sun as then.
“Wow! I like the sun. It’s beautiful!” she complimented and
her lips twitched into a faint smile, whose radiance sparkled brighter than the
sun its self. For a moment or two, she seemed taken away by her own impression
as if the sun himself possessed supernatural powers that lingered in her eyes
that she saw nothing else but beauty in him. She looked as if she were carried
up and now she sat in the galaxy where the sun and she reigned a million of
stars and planets there up.
“You do! I guess it is icy in Germany now.” I whispered to
her as if I did not know that it was winter in her country already_ She had
told me a couple of hours ago while we still were on bus that winter had spread
his mantle of snow-white allover everywhere in Germany, and that they
experienced only a brief exposure to the sun. In fact every time she comes to
Uganda (she tells me) she comes to experience the sun’s warm touch as it is
always icy in Germany in November and December. This is the reason as to why
her visits to Uganda actually often happen during this time. She loves the sun!
We made a phone call to Victor, a gentleman who heads
entrepreneurship at the refugee camp. He was the only person that Ms. Hildburg
knew very well that could direct us to the refugee settlement without any fail.
The two met at SINA, an innovational center in Mpigi town. SINA is under the
management of some German gentleman who empowers people’s creativity through guiding
them in using their own challenges as opportunities to better their own lives_ they turn challenges into opportunities.
A few things that struck me dumb and stirred
up my impression the two times I was there, and I wondered how possibly these
folks came up with ideas and put them on ground, were: first they managed to
build houses using used up water bottles in order to minimize the improper dumping
of plastics whose damage to the eco-system is fatal and brutally harsh. The first
thing that welcomes your eye when you make your first step into SINA is these “out
of bottle” houses, greatly colored and decorated with their roofs out of either
old jerry cans or banana fibers although some are roofed with worn-out tyres.
Everything used on these houses is local; but beautiful, and not made with
complex technology; but impressive. The bottom-line of it all is creativity. Actually they are modern,
and nice to live in as some of the guest houses I have seen in Kampala before:
- the difference here being the use of plastic bottles instead of bricks; but
everything else is the same.
As that was not the
end of their wits, folks made the floor out of egg shells (Imagine). I could
not believe my eyes, and none else theirs, that actually it was strong. But
that I walked about it, I would be doubting still. For God’s sake I was
astonished and lost my reason for a fraction of a second or two. These people were born late for their era;
they should be Leonado Da Vinci or Newton of our age. You got to be Thomas
of the Bible, and see for yourself first or else you can still believe not what
I say to you. But what if only I am too right?
Of course I cannot tell you everything that I saw there. But
the little I know from SINA, you ought to know too. That is if you are
interested.
Second, on what amazed me still, people at SINA were self
driven. No one told them what to do. All that was done was a product of themselves thinking and creating_
imagination! This really left me amazed as I looked at different
projects under different managements yet all were of the same belonging. This is how
this German, Etien designed it. Everyone
is his own master. What makes you the boss is your idea!
So now I had to speak to Victor on phone because Ms. Hildburg
was not so fluent in English although she could understand and comprehend
whatsoever told her. Being a German, and not having learnt English in school,
she often got trouble in communicating with whom could not speak her language,
and could neither comprehend her English, sometimes although she tried so hard.
Surprisingly, reaching Mbarara was just the beginning of the
journey to Nakivale. The camp was sixty kilometers farther still. That was
about fifteen thousand Uganda shillings on taxi each. Now that we were four,
that summed up to sixty thousand Uganda shillings. For travelers, it is easy to
notice that we had about one and a half hours to reach the camp, yet the
problem was the language here spoken. Who was going to inquire from the passers-by
or the by-standers however we were going to get to the camp? Even though some
spoke some English, the majority spoke Kiswahili and a language which was a mixture
of all the languages spoken in this region. It sounded like a drunkard man
speak Chinese. Not a word made sense in my ear. They all were meaningless to me
like an old music stone that sings HAKEIEJAOOAQUAH: total nonsense but to them.
The first gentleman I made to talk to spoke a little English.
I begged of him to direct us to the nearest taxi park, which he seemed hesitant
of and very determined, and interested to talk to me still. His eyes rolled
about before they finally looked into mine, and his voice quaked a little when
he attempted to say a word. He looked a very hard-working man whose lips got
scorched under the latent heat of the sun, and his palms were dirty and hard.
He was dressed in a pair of huge, large; green trousers which had lost color
over time. His shirt was cream; but looked like it was once white, and was
tattered at the collar. He wore a pair of sandals in his feet so that they and
the belt looked alike. And he had tucked his shirt in like every gentleman who deserves to
earn respect should.
“Do you need a taxi?” he asked kindly as his hand grasped
mine with haste. “I have a vehicle. It is comfy. You’ll like it!” He explained
as his eye-brows, dusted brown of soil, lifted up so as his forehead wrinkled
upwards. He was a driver and he could take us to the camp but he was expensive.
He wanted us to pay thirty thousand Uganda shillings each. This was so
expensive for such a shorter distance that it was, as compared to the distance
we travelled from kampala to mbarara, yet at twenty thousand each, and
more-over the bus was much more comfortable than his so called precious comfy
car as he called it. In fact we had driven for four hours before we reached
Mbarara and it was not as costly as such he wanted. No way. Not even a fool could give him his
ear.
A lady, who heard us argue about the cost of the taxi with
this man stood up and raised her voice from a distance.
“I know someone who can take you to the camp. Come, follow
me!”
We all looked at her as she turned her back against us and
made hers move. She was some big fat woman that had veiled her head like a
hajjis and a number of bangles on her left hand jingled as she moved. She
looked very serious like most businesswomen who work in the markets of
Ggaba(where I come from). But she was dressed in a Nigerian fashion, in a dress
with designs of flowers decorated with art and looked very beautiful.
Reaching the taxi
park, which was just opposite to the bus park in which we were, we saw an old
model car, I do not know the name; but looked like an Ipsum although this was
too old and tired! It looked like it could not move a yard before it broke
down. It could normally carry a maximum
of six passengers, and four were sat there already. Now the four of us, MS.
Hildburg, Marvin, Kake and I were out still. At first I thought the lady who
brought us had any other car special for us. But I was surprised when she told
us that that, old, almost dead car, was what we were going on. I would refuse
to sit myself there only if I had a choice. But it was getting late. None of us
wished to travel with the dark. So we had to squeeze ourselves there, or else
we would miss it.
Having packed ourselves in the car like luggage, the car
felt damn hot like hell! I started sweating and after a few seconds, my all
body was drenched with sweat. I guess I wasn’t the only one. Every one of us started fanning ourselves
with anything that would do that job, for the car had no AC.
Before he started the engine, the driver asked each one of
us to pay him some deposit so that he could fuel the car and pay off the lady
who had brought us. Only then did I come to realize what that lady was. She was
a broker. She brings people who need taxis and she is paid a commission.
“Are we supposed to pay before we reach?” Ms Hildburg asked
confusedly. She had never seen such a situation before.
“Well, we wouldn’t but we need fuel. So we need to pay some
amount now.” I answered.
“How much?”
“Forty thousand
shillings.”
“Das ist zu
viel!” She said and now with a more raised tone. She was telling me that
that was too much to pay before we reached. How could we trust the driver! But
I had to put it clear for her because everyone else had paid some amount, so we too had to.
When all payments were done, and the driver fastened his
seat-belt, we set off the journey that I had never travelled before. I was
eager to see what lay beyond my imagination. What a refugee settlement really
is.
The first few kilometers that we drove were so boring. one could only see hills, plants, and houses moving backwards when one looked through the window. None of us was saying a word except the taxi radio which played some songs that none of us apart from the driver, who seemed enyoying (because he was singing) the music, could understand. One track followed the other in turn, and they all had the same rythyme. Perhaps they all belonged to the same singer. I don't know!
But it did not take very long before we hit a dusty road that led to the camp. We first got checked by the traffic officer who got paid some cash that I never got to know for what it was. I could say that it was a bribe because the driver had overloaded; but i wasn't sure whether this driver had a valid driver's licence either. Whatever that money was for, i don't know but it was our way into the camp.
So we drove farther and the music continued still. You could not see clearly what stood a few yards before you because the whole vicinity was covered in the mist of dust. And the vehicle raised more dust behind us so you could not see what lay behind you either. Some dust could escape through the window and made its taste be felt when you breathed in.
"Somalia is the richest here. They have supermarkets, boutiques, and expensive things. Most people however live in New Bura. That's for the middle class. Sudan used to be the richest but they all left the camp. They got much money and went to America." She explained.
"America. You have America here?" I asked in astonishment.
"Noooo. Oh my God. Am talking about real America. They left for America. We don't have it here!"
Now it was dark, and we were in the town still. Yes she was walking me through the town. She said they had villages too, but villages were dangerous to new comers. She said people would attempt to beat me thinking i had money.
"And aren't you afraid to walk alone back home?" I asked her worriedly. She said it was dangerously for girls to move at night especially if they were alone. Lustful men would take advantage of them and might even kill them if they fought them.
"I have friends here. They'll take me home. No need to worry!"
After I had sen the town and saw where We could buy food and water when we got hungry, I asked her if she could take me back to the unleashed.
Unleashed was under the management of Victor. He organised sessions to train such people who had desire to learn and better their lives. Hildburg had brought them computers and they could use them in their projects. Some of their projects included art, computer studies and entrepreneurship. But Victor told me they had just started. they needed a hand in anyway possible. He showed me some of his scheduled future plans, and he explained his challenges. Of course it was vivid clear that they lacked money to run some of their projects. For instance they wanted to promote girl child education but it wasn't that easy at all. By starting this organisation, The Unleashed, he had hope to help many of those who came from their countries and could not go back because of different reasons. But they all deserved a second life, because they all had dreams.
Actually i listened to stories of many there. Some left Congo when wars disturbed peace. Some lost all their family members in war. Some woke up to find dead bodies washed ashore. And everything was just as scary. Well, in short, all of them were at least victims of wars which were going on in their countries.
I would continue writing and tell you more about my adventures but some things that I saw there really make me emotional and i cannot find exact words say. You could be wherever you are and you think your life is a mess, but there are people whose life is well a mess but they are happy and work hard at making good out of it. At least we should appreciate the mere fact that we are still alive. Nothing is better than that. That's a gift from God!
