Tales From Near 0 Degrees Latitude, or What I Learned During My Summer Vacation
When I Taught in Uganda

By Mary Ann Murdoch
Professor of Humanities, Polk State College

First, there is the noise. Relentless. Ear-assaulting. The car horns, leviathan diesel trucks grinding their gears, four-wheel-drive vehicles with no mufflers, scooters and motorcycles buzzing and rumbling, people yelling, music blaring from vehicles and street vendors.

Then, the smells. Car exhaust fumes everywhere, billowing up from the streets into your nostrils, along with gray smoke from the thousands of charcoal cooking fires all over the city and into the rural countryside. The pungent odors of open marketplaces – trampled mangos, tomatoes and avocados, crushed chunks of corn and eggplant, and the smell of animal carcasses hanging in little bodegas and shops. And that other smell? Well, when you see chickens, goats and cows wandering up and down city streets, you know what follows.

Next, the ride. Roads pitted, gouged and rutted. Concrete and rocks jutting up and out, ditches and drop-offs on either side. And the ubiquitous red, gravelly clay, kicking up dust with every tire, foot and hoof that touches it. Severe bumps, jolts and jostles are the reality of driving and being driven. There are no easy routes. No shortcuts.

When you have gotten over the initial shock and awe of the preceding three, you finally start to focus on what you see.

People. Very dark people. People so black they look almost purplish. Heads of amazing shapes. Bodies of average to tall heights, but little girth. Gristle and muscle and bone. Calves and thighs developed from walking and pedaling. Backs strong from hauling and carrying. Tough, wiry arms and hands.

And the faces. Oh, the faces of such world-weariness. The myriad traumas – poverty, bearing 10 children, being afflicted with malaria or polio or HIV, having a fifth-grade education, living in a wood and tin box, drinking dirty water and not having much but a cup of rice and spoonful of mashed plantain to eat during the day – all take their tolls on the faces.

But you also see wide smiles. You see mothers cuddle their children. You see boys kicking a soccer ball around. You see dignity and determination amid unfathomable urban chaos and crowding, and in rural tribal villages with mud huts ringed by banana trees.

And after a couple of days of adjusting and adapting, and suppressing the urge to call the airline and arrange for a flight home (“Yes, I mean right now, please!”), you begin to see.

You see Uganda.

This sub-Saharan country in East Africa is separated from the Indian Ocean by Kenya. Its southern border is nestled into the equator and the massive Lake Victoria. Its northern boundary and western mountains abut the sometimes-dangerous border regions of South Sudan and Democratic Republic of Congo, respectively.

My journey to this place began in early December 2010 with an interesting solicitation I received through my workplace e-mail at Polk State College in Winter Haven, Florida, where I’m a professor of humanities and film. “Teach in Africa!” it proclaimed. After reading about the program, called Teach and Tour Sojourners (TATS), I was compelled to save this e-mail. I looked at the program’s Web site, and I sent a message of inquiry to the program coordinator, Anita Kabikire.

To my surprise, I got a quick and enthusiastic reply. Yes, we are interested in you coming here. Yes, your teaching skills are very much needed. Yes, you will enjoy the trips and touring opportunities while you’re here.

Anita and I exchanged about 100 e-mails, and six months later – May 16, 2011 – I said a tearful goodbye to my incredibly supportive husband, Ted Hoffman, my 8-year-old son Teddy, and a host of other family and friends (all excited for me, but still a bit concerned) to depart from Tampa, Florida.  From there it was on to Washington, D.C., then to Brussels, Belgium, then to Kigali, Rwanda, and finally Entebbe, Uganda, for my teaching and touring adventure. I was to give lectures in a variety of schools, and my main focus would be on writing and composition, with some other classes in creative writing and film.  I was told my students would be all ages and abilities, and I’d have to tailor the lectures to the individual classes – urban and rural, elementary age to adults.

But after 26 hours of traveling – 20 of those hours on airplanes — I was not ready to deliver brilliant lectures. All I wanted was sleep. I didn’t get much. I arrived May 17 at 9:45 p.m., the night after I had left the U.S., and then it was a long wait in line to get my visa in Entebbe and go through customs. I was told my driver, Larry Maka, would be waiting outside customs, holding a sign with my name on it. Thankfully, he was there, and he drove this exhausted and overwhelmed American to Kampala – the capital city of Uganda and the home of the TATS program.

After virtually no sleep – mind racing, emotions frayed – I was awakened from fitful dozing at 4:30 a.m. by a robust rooster crowing outside my window, joined by his harem of clucking chickens. The sun came bursting through my window about 6 a.m. I looked at the mosquito netting surrounding me in my tiny bed, felt disoriented, hot, grumpy and hungry. And I wondered what the hell I was doing in Africa. But at the same time thinking, “My god, I’m waking up in Africa!”

And then I was off to my first classes. To learn.

I’ve been a college professor for nearly five years, having spent most of my adult life as a journalist. I’ve traveled extensively – a lot of it by myself – and experienced different people and cultures, from the roguish drug peddlers in Jamaica to the mystical Aboriginal people in Australia’s Outback. But nothing prepared me for the incredible challenges – mental, physical and emotional – I faced in Uganda.

If you want to get to the real core of what a teacher is, come to East Africa where the schools have nothing; the students have nothing; the instructors and administrators have nothing. Nothing, that is, except dignity and desire. That’s what keeps them going. And it was this unwavering passion and almost angry determination I saw and felt that kept me going as well.

It kept me going at the Difra Language Service school in downtown Kampala, where a small class of adult students attended to improve their English. They came from everywhere – Ethiopia, Somalia, South Sudan, Comoros Island – and had in many cases left their jobs and families back home to try to learn English. To get a better job. To go on to higher education. To perhaps, one day, achieve their highest aspiration of coming to the United States.

One student had lost his entire family in the Rwanda genocides in 1994. He had been orphaned, had made it on his own any way he could, and was living in a church broom closet. He cleaned up the church grounds and sanctuary in exchange for a place to stay. Another had left his family and job as an accountant on Comoros, an island off the coast of Tanzania, and wanted to speak and write English more professionally so he could go to business school for a bachelor’s degree. Another, a 20-something artist from Somalia, wanted to be able to market his work more efficiently so he could make a living doing what he loved: drawing and painting.

They made their way to this school every day – a hot and stuffy fourth-floor classroom, reached by rickety dark stairs, in the heart of downtown. No glass on the windows. No A/C. No fan. A gouged up blackboard. Ancient desks and chairs. Incessant sounds of car horns and boom boxes and people yelling out on the streets drowning out their teacher and me. The only toilet in the school is a room with a hole in the floor, a bucket and hose nearby.

And, oh, by the way, these students PAY to be here.

(A salient cultural aside: This was my introduction to the “African” toilet. When I asked to use the restroom, they pointed me toward a door. I went in, closed the door, turned around and saw the configuration, not even knowing how I would use this facility. I weighed my options – and the fullness of my bladder – and decided to wait until I got back to the TATS office. I will say, proudly, that by the end of my trip I had mastered the use of the African toilet, and wasn’t even peeing on my shoes anymore).

And I thought, “What could I teach them?” Each of these students had more balls than any 25 whiny, over-privileged Americans.

But I tried to offer them something useful. We worked on the ideas of narrative writing, and talked about the importance of descriptive words and details. As a fun assignment, I paired them off and had them interview each other. They had to come up with five questions for the other person, write down what they were told, and then write three to four descriptive paragraphs about that person using the information they had gotten, but also include colorful and engaging details. What was the person wearing? What kind of hairstyle? Any interesting jewelry? Describe his skin. Her eyes. His smile.

This proved a little weird for some of the Muslim students. They were not used to being asked personal questions by the opposite sex. But I saw them smiling and laughing with each other, and their essays – which they read aloud – were some of the most beautiful pieces of writing I’ve ever heard.

After three days of classes at Difra, I would leave them and go to a different school. I was overcome by emotion. The students all wanted to have their pictures taken with me, to give me their e-mail addresses and phone numbers, to offer prayers for me. I won’t soon forget one student, “Pastor Mike,” as he was called, who exhorted his chosen deity to watch over me, reward me and bless me for all that I had brought to them. And all I could think was, “No. YOU are the ones to be revered for your heart and guts and determination.”

These students and their teacher, Dick Francis Tumusime, were my deities. My heroes.

It was a refrain I would think and repeat every day in Uganda.

My next series of classes was at the UMCAT School of Journalism and Business in Kampala. These college-age students meet in a series of classrooms in a walled-in compound. The buildings are pinkish stucco. My classroom, which consisted of some boards nailed together for walls and pieces of metal and tin for a ceiling, had a dirt floor and a couple of small holes for windows. It accommodated about 80 students, who sat at decrepit desks and chairs.

They asked me some of the most intriguing and challenging questions. And they expected answers. They looked at me, a professional American journalist and educator, and wanted a clear and evocative picture of what my experiences had been throughout my newspaper career. But I wasn’t prepared for questions about bribery, payola, biased editors telling you what to write, having to fork over money for information from sources, being targeted or threatened for writing a story about a particular person or group.

All of these unethical and illegal behaviors and practices are sadly common in Uganda, as political parties, opposition groups, government agencies and local police all jockey for position; for the best spin on a story; to cover up a story completely; the most prominent play on the front page. And the journalists are caught in the middle of this. These students, and their tough-as-nails teacher Aisha Ahmad Nalule, all faced obstacles I had never encountered as a reporter, editor and columnist.

All I could tell them was that most American journalists are able to gain access to most of the information they want, are entitled to all public records, and don’t have to pay off people to get a story or a quote. If these students encountered these despicable practices, they should tell their editors and discuss what to do. And let their conscience be their guide.

My responses seemed inadequate and facile in relation to what these serious young people wanted to know. I was relieved when their questions turned to my background as a features editor and arts and entertainment writer. They were fascinated by my stories about America, about being a film critic and music critic, about interviewing celebrities, seeing movies, attending concerts, and teaching humanities and film at a university.

I taught at the UMCAT school three times, and each time I was put to the test. I was amazed by their knowledge, their rabid interest in politics, their fierce determination to tell the story, no matter the consequences. One young man, Siriva Tulihabwe, started e-mailing me almost immediately, inquiring about America, about digital media, photography, computers, and my experiences. He created a special polo shirt for me with the UMCAT school logo on it, and he hand-delivered it to the TATS program headquarters because he wanted to see me before I left Uganda. I was touched and humbled. This young man had bought the shirt, made a stencil/decal and then taken two cabs and a boda-boda – the incredibly harrowing bicycle taxis that dart in and out of traffic on Kampala streets – just to see me again, at no small expense to his limited bank account, no doubt.

Siriva and I still maintain frequent and lively correspondence and photo sharing, and he hopes to come to America one day.

The most emotional experience was at the Kiteezi Junior School, a rural village elementary school outside of Kampala. It was started by brothers Ronald Ssaku and Augustine Sserwadda Caesar. “It was a dream I had,” said Ssaku. “I wanted to create a place where the rural children could come and have an opportunity for education and success in their lives.”

Kiteezi has more than 300 children who learn in a few open-air classrooms — again, dirt floors and some pieces of board and metal cobbled together. The school has one toilet, and it’s the typical African toilet: Yes, another hole in the floor. Many of the children’s families cannot afford the school fees, so Ssaku takes care of things from his own pocket. As headmaster, he takes care of just about everything, along with a dedicated staff of teachers.

I fell in love with Kiteezi because of the beauty of these children – many of whom are orphans being raised by grandparents or other relatives because their parents have died of HIV or AIDS. Many students have HIV, too. But they come to school eager and excited, and are guided and cared for by the lovely men and women who could probably go get other jobs that would pay more money, but they don’t.

I had sent two large boxes of school supplies ahead of my trip so that I wouldn’t have to lug too much with me on the planes. I planned to take items with me to the various schools, but unfortunately the boxes didn’t get there until three weeks after I had gotten home, owing to the incredibly slow mail system there. But after visiting Kiteezi, I knew where the supplies were going, and I asked the TATS program coordinator, Anita, and my driver, Larry, to make sure the items got taken to Kiteezi, where the needs are so great.

Basic school supplies – pencils, paper, crayons, coloring books, ABC and spelling books, dictionaries, maps, charts, arithmetic tables – are nonexistent. Kiteezi’s staffers have used pieces of cardboard and poster paper and have drawn their own maps of Uganda, of Africa, and other continents to put up on the walls to show the children where they live and what the world looks like. They have hand-written times tables, the alphabet, and vocabulary words from different disciplines – science terms, math terms, geography, nature, the planets, parts of the body. There are no computers, no internet. Information and educational materials are prized, but inaccessible to these children, except for the tenacity and makeshift artwork of the teachers and administration.

I visited Kiteezi for only two days, teaching mostly writing and English, but also answering myriad questions from the curious children: “Do you have poor people in America?” “How are black people treated there?”  “What do you think about President Obama?” “Are there people in America who have AIDS?” “Does everyone live in a big house in your country?”

How could I explain to them that we have so much, yet we squander it, don’t appreciate it, trivialize education, still have racial prejudice, are consumed with silly gadgets and electronic devices, whine and complain about everything … America was suddenly limned into clarity and perspective as I stood in front of these youngsters, trying to answer their questions.

My second day at Kiteezi, the headmaster had arranged for a special program to be presented in my honor, and also for my driver, Larry, who had become a friend of this school. The children performed a series of traditional tribal songs and dances, accompanied by drumming. The young people take such pride in their heritage. One of the youngest girls, Lucy, presented me with a bouquet of fabric flowers and the school gave me a wooden plaque in the shape of Uganda, a lovely letter, and also a beautifully wrapped avocado.

When I walked to the truck to leave, the children all gathered around me, wanting to touch me, hug me, give me high fives. I could barely contain myself from bursting into tears. I wanted to take them all with me. Why should they suffer and struggle when there is so much waste and excess in my own country, and throughout the “civilized” world? How can the president of Uganda, Yoweri Museveni, allow such poverty and dire need to plague his country’s schools?

Naïve questions, certainly. There are many other countries with needs as great. But eastern Africa is particularly hard hit. The famine in Somalia has reached epic proportions, with thousands of children dying each week, and refugees fleeing the Islamists and factional extremists and flooding into Kenya every day. And Kenya now has the largest refugee camp on the planet, with people it cannot afford to feed or provide shelter or medical care for. South Sudan, the world’s newest nation, struggles with rebels and political strife, as does Democratic Republic of Congo, with rebels known to haunt the border with Uganda, kidnapping people and holding them for ransom.

Haiti is considered the poorest country, in terms of global economic data. Uganda comes in at No. 3. The average annual income is approximately $600. The average person has a seventh-grade education. The life expectancy of men is only 49 years; for women, 50. The median age is a shocking 15. The country has been ravaged by political and civil wars, the economy devastated by the rule of brutal dictator Idi Amin, who was responsible for the deaths of more than 300,000 Ugandans from 1971-79. HIV and AIDS are rampant because condom use is low. Homosexuality is illegal in Uganda, and gays and lesbians are harassed and tormented at all levels of society. Thousands have been beaten, murdered, or have disappeared and are presumed dead. The country has untapped reserves of natural resources, including oil and gas, but no money to develop them. There are 32.4 million people in the country, and only eight doctors for every 100,000 people.

Paints a pretty picture, doesn’t it?

I felt overwhelmed with anger and frustration at the rigors of simple survival for these people. And then I realized that I, too, was dealing with Uganda daily life, and I was getting consumed by worry. Their hardships were mine. Every day I was worried about where I could get bottled water, because you can’t drink anything from the tap anywhere. Every day I was worried about when and where I would get some food, and where I would find a usable toilet, or running water. I worried about getting safely from one place to another. Even though Larry was an excellent driver, the roads are treacherous and if you spin off the gravel into a ditch, nobody would find you for days – except for the leopards and lions and bugs. Every day I walked for what seemed like miles. Every day I was covered with red clay dust; I was hungry, thirsty, bruised, scratched, got caught in rainstorms, splashed with mud and stepped in animal dung.

I learned to bring everything with me, every day. Especially toilet paper. But also antacids, aspirin and Tylenol, allergy medicine, hand sanitizer gel, wet wipes, a first aid kit, antibiotic cream, anti-itch ointment, sunscreen, anti-diarrhea capsules and a bottle of Pepto. And I used all of it. I got through many days munching solely on the granola bars and bags of M&Ms that I had packed as snacks.

I grumbled to myself a lot, and also to Larry. He and I spent each of my 16 days in Uganda together – sometimes all day and all night driving in a rough, non-air-conditioned 4WD truck. We got to know each other pretty well. He got to see the less gracious sides of me – but also, fortunately, the best, as I went into each school determined to make a difference with the kids.

Larry was a wealth of information and told me all about local customs, politics, foods and behaviors. He is extremely well read, knows everything about the history of Uganda and other East African countries, and keeps up on the politics and culture of the United States and other western countries.

I owed him so much – mostly my survival and sanity during those 16 days. But I also learned that I was pretty damn tough and resilient, and could deal with the stresses and emotional and physical demands of the trip. I was doing all right considering that, using the average life expectancy of women there, I should be probably be dead.

In addition to the amazing students and schools I befriended, I also could not have imagined the natural and beastly wonders of Uganda. The equator runs through southern Uganda, and I visited this dividing line at a small touristy area. I was able to stand in the northern and southern hemispheres simultaneously, and saw (as demonstrated by the jolly tourism fellow using three metal bowls), that water runs clockwise in the southern hemisphere, counterclockwise 20 feet away in the northern hemisphere, and it drains straight down on the equatorial line. Help, Mr. Wizard!

I saw the source of the great Nile River at a small national park in Jinja, Uganda, and took a boat safari on the Nile in Murchison Falls National Park. I also visited Queen Elizabeth National Park, Lake Mburu National Park, the beautiful Rwenzori Mountains, and Mount Elgon on the border Uganda and Kenya.

Safaris were a must, and I had taken advantage of the fact that TATS arranges all the treks for you in country, saving you anywhere from 25 percent to 50 percent on park permits, which can be quite costly if you have to buy them while in the United States. Some of the admittance permits were more than $500, so the discounts were sizable.

The animals were stunning and thrilling. There are not enough adjectives to describe how I felt seeing rhinos, elephants, giraffes, water buffalo, warthogs, baboons, hippos, and all kinds of antelope-like creatures with jaunty names like kob and dik-dik. Then there was the national bird of Uganda, the striking crested crane. All kinds of birds with jewel-toned feathers and lacy, streaming tails. And Nile crocodile – the most terrifying thing I’d ever seen.

This is not the zoo or Disney Animal Kingdom. It’s more like the scene in Jurassic Park when Jeff Goldblum’s character Ian Malcolm (the only voice of reason and sanity among the arrogant humans) is talking about how we misperceive and underestimate nature and wild creatures and, when the scientists barely survive the escaped T-Rex coming after them in the cutesy safari truck, Malcolm wryly remarks, “Do you think they’ll have that on the tour?”

I kept wondering – wide-eyed and enervated – if life would imitate art.

The treks bring you close enough to these awesome creatures to hear them breathe, and to feel the rumble of their footfalls. To see them looking at you with curiosity and wariness, and to know that you are in their world – the wild savanna, the bush, the lush forest – is to experience something primal; something that strips away all hubris. It’s the same hubris that got flayed off me – the skin of Western civilization – when I went into these schools, met these children and teachers, and tried to leave something worthwhile behind.

Larry talked to me a lot about that. He has worked with TATS and these schools for several years and has seen the impact that American and European teachers have had on the students. He has something invested in this program because these are his people, and he believes that education is a way out – often the only way out – for the young people of Uganda. And anyone who comes here – to “the Pearl of Africa,” as it is known — to volunteer in this effort is looked upon with the utmost reverence. But I didn’t feel I deserved that much admiration. All the hard work is done by these teachers, day in and day out, while I got to come home to my hot showers, Diet Coke, air-conditioned house, technology-equipped classrooms, massive college library, cheeseburgers and comfy bed.

But Larry, in his straightforward manner, told me that I had made a huge difference. “These students look at you like you are Princess Diana,” he said. “Even more important than her, because you came here, lived here, gave your time and energy. They see that you care enough to be here.”

I practice yoga, and I credit it and my wonderful instructors and fellow yoginis at Yoga Pointe in Lakeland, Florida, for helping me not just get through the trying moments of my journey (including vomiting up everything in my stomach one night in the Rwenzori Mountains during a safari trip), but to embrace those moments. One of the things we learn in yoga is to simply “be present.” That’s what I tried to do every day of my journey. I told myself, “Be here.” Be in the moment. Absorb it all with an open heart and mind (that is, after calling my husband, alternately whimpering and cursing!)

Now, several months later, it’s still hard to grasp what I experienced. But I was there. I saw Uganda. I learned about its people and their incredible strength and fortitude. I saw the epic vastness of the land and its creatures, and the graceful moments of a small child who had learned a new word or concept.

I still show my trip photos and videos to my husband, and my family and friends. I tell them about my adventures and how I felt, what I saw, who I met and talked with. The children whose names and faces I remember. The teachers who pour their lives into the schools. And the TATS program, whose dedicated employees saw a need and created this teach-and-tour opportunity to bring hope and change to their country.

I was a stranger in a strange land. But now I’m forever connected to Uganda and its people, and hope to return one day. Until then, I will keep in touch with the students and teachers, help them by sending more boxes of school supplies, try to raise funds to support the schools, and encourage other teachers and professors to embark on the same life-changing experience.

Be there. Open your eyes. And see.

About the author:

Mary Ann Murdoch lives in Lakeland, Florida, and is a professor of humanities and film at Polk State College in Winter Haven, Florida. She is an award-winning poet and fiction writer, and spent 25-plus years as a journalist and arts critic. Her wanderlust never ceases. She has traveled extensively in Great Britain and Western Europe; has explored Sweden and Estonia; trekked through Australia; and, of course, visited Africa. She has been to three of the five major continents (South America and Asia still await), and wants to see more of the world and do more teaching sojourns. She gives boundless thanks and love to her husband Ted, and son, Teddy, who are so encouraging and supportive of her far-away endeavors, and to her mom, Pat, and brother, Shannon. Gratitude and deep affection also to the following: Cindy Skop, a world-class photojournalist, dear friend and world traveler who lent me her digital camera and other supplies for the trip; journalist Ben Bateman, an Army veteran who served in Saudi Arabia and Kuwait, for his longtime friendship and enthusiastic support; Jana, April, Ashley and Seff at Yoga Pointe; Anita and Larry at TATS and all the TATS employees; Professor Ana Maria Myers, and all the other inspiring professors at Polk State College; my students at Polk State College; and all the courageous teachers and beautiful students at every special school visited in Uganda.

Namaste.