Pages Turning

It was a long red dirt road through real Africa at dusk -- many dim settlements lit by only three naked bulbs, but still humming with life. The road rutted by an afternoon downpour, puddles remained, but one box of textbooks had been delivered, lightening the load in Kacumbe's van, and the afterglow of the experience warmed me from within. Five teachers filled the back seats, sitting on yet to deliver boxes, and told stories of their school day in English and Lugandan, as lightning flickered often revealing the distant cloudscape in the darkening skies. Exotic indeed.

We'd given a shipment of $500 in Ugandan textbooks to Ogur Secondary, a new school, established very near the burial site of 300 civilians slain a decade ago by the Lord's Resistance Army of Joseph Kony. These were the vast flatlands of northern Uganda, near South Sudan, where existence, let alone education, is often tenuous. The appreciation of the staff and the 250 kids seated and singing before me had just been among my life's most treasured experiences. Teachers spoke to the assembly, as did I, and they listened attentively, but when we opened the heavily taped brown box on the table before them to reveal the wealth of new books the crowd erupted in cheers. 

I gave the head teacher a Santa Barbara club volleyball jersey, and launched a donated volleyball, a skyball serve into the evening throng, and general celebration ensued. Volunteer parents, finishing mud and thatch work on their new library that would house the books, came over to say thanks and shake the big white man's hand. And I tried hard to soak it all in. 

On the half hour ride back to town, one teacher had yet to take off her new jersey, and I was still simmering in the richness of the occasion, and the mission that Turn the Page, Uganda has undertaken. Over 90 schools have now been helped, and many more boxes remain in Kacumbe's van to still deliver. 

Bunyonyi Dawn - 6:30 AM

Lots of birds welcome me to another Bunyonyi morning.  I can visualize the grey crowned cranes I hear outside, but another 40 or 50  bird sounds that penetrate my hut remain a mystery. Speckled mousebirds, cute little firefinches, big augur buzzards, colorful bee eaters, ibis, bul buls, and glowing sunbirds flourish here -- and the morning is theirs.

Bunyonyi means "lake of many little birds" in Ruchiga, the local tongue.

The audio is freshened by raindrops on thatch, the harsh squak of several ibis (like wounded kazoos) and the world wide call to rise of roosters and their clucking consorts.

But my cozy covers cacoon me and I drift into shallow dream on this African dawn.

I eventually emerge -- and through the filigree of eucalyptus, 3 graceful white cranes swoop by as if on cue. They perch in the huge trees across the bay.

Similarly, solitary paddlers create silent wakes with their dugout canoes of cargo on the mirrored surface of the lake. A study in placidity.

A black faced bright yellow weaver bird perches on a rail 4 feet from my foot. and breaks some vital but indecipherable news to me. Baffled by my ignorance, he shakes his head and flies off.

Mousebirds with long tails and fluffy plumage, that Lynette and I labeled "squabblers", bicker in the tree to my left -- loud and insistent. 

The spell is profound ... until the sound of Saturday's first motorboat pierces my bubble of serenity. Where only two or three existed 10 years ago, now dozens of machines propel boats, simplifying transport and spoiling romantic reveries.

But soon the birds restore their sonic sovereignty ... thank god ... and new raindrops on tin roofs supplement the soundtrack ... and my dreams begin again.

A Placid Patio

Yesterday and today We did some real media work here in mud shacks perched on the edge of Lake Bunyonyi, Southwestern Uganda. Amazing, the contrast with how rudimentary but rich the lives of these people and the sophistication of our electronic production. 

I did a video interview by the lake to correspond to the blog “Many Happy Returns” Gorilla Highlands blog entry I wrote, which I believe I posted here. I don’t know how I came across, but it was pretty darn scenic.

Miha and I did the hard work of scripting and coordinating the narrations of two substantial videos. A Kigali piece had to avoid certain issues and conform to guidelines of people in Rwanda’s capital. You can see it soon on the GH website. We did another on the GH trek from Lake Burera to Cyanica (Chanika) border crossing, “Fisherman’s Fortune”. We’ll go there tomorrow to see it for ourselves. Miha flies on Final Cut Pro, while I add creative dimensions, sarcasm and humor. It is great fun and the result was something we are proud of.

This morning traveler friends from Germany and Spain animated the morning. A girl from Palma, Mallorca, knew all the places Boomer and I used to haunt and I got to speak Spanish for hours. Nice … and rare … here in the land of African tongues.

I taught string tricks to Boy David, who then taught them to Enoch, the cook. Boy is now the flamboyant “Baciga Magic Man”, bursting with pride. I can’t get my strings back from them. No batteries needed, unbreakable, needing no wifi connection, strings seem the perfect medium for my style of American diplomacy. We need a new text in these days of Trump and his “s___hole countries” comments that every African has noted.

I-phone seminars and Mac Plus instruction has been key for me. It seems that I’ve only been using 10% of the talents of each device. But now I write with a pen Solana gave me on actual paper and it’s fun and functional — because the wifi is on the fritz. I’ll type and send this when the ether clears.

Kingfishers dive and pied wagtails strut across the patio before me in the noonday sun. Farmers and their yield, students bound home from school and travelers developing paddling skills animate the smooth water below as I await a hot lunch of rice and beans from Enoch. 

More video editing and recording will follow after my nap. So nice …

Many Happy Returns

I lucked into the discovery of these magical mountains.  I was safely ensconced in a post retirement life of plenty in a California beach town, nursing an ember of long-ago third world adventure. I’d been a traveller, not a tourist, for years of my early life, all over Mexico, Central and South America and Europe. I’d lived for years in Mallorca and lazed on the beaches of Morocco. But I’d ignored Africa.

When my best friend’s daughter was assigned to a Kampala hospital for medical training, we decided to visit her and see what was so dark about this continent. It was indeed illuminating.

After officiating a volleyball match in Santa Barbara, one coach who’d heard of my proposed trip, told me of her adventures with Edirisa, in a land called Kabale. So I grabbed my keyboard and a few strokes later had volunteered for several weeks doing who knows what, who knows where. As a 25 year English teacher, camp director, volleyball coach and professional TV and print journalist I had certain skills, but no idea how they’d be employed.

The warmth of Ugandan people ambushed me at the airport before I even entered the country. I told Kate, an awaiting passenger, my destination and she thanked me profusely for coming to help her people, the Baciga. She taught me common phrases in Ruciga and gushed about the glories of matoke and posho.

When we arrived in Kampala she had a wedding party for me to attend, a huge family to embrace and a friend to house me in this foreign land. It was a miraculous introduction to this country that would soon steal my heart.

Once in Kabale, the smiles and sincerity of nearly everyone I met allayed all fears and negative preconceptions of Africa. The exact opposite impression grew on me daily, and despite my white skin and 6’3” stature, I felt totally accepted by the many African friends that I worked with daily.

An hour long boda boda (motorcycle taxi) trip brought me to build a volleyball court at a remote primary school in Kamarunko. After construction, I spoke to the assembled student body and told them that this court was a bond of fellowship between worlds. I wrote on the new ball, “a gift from the children of America.” Stanley, the headmaster, had his prize student, named Gift, translate my words and accept the ball. As she did, I felt curious hands on my ankles. 

The crowd roared approval, and Stanley proclaimed, “You can touch him now.” I was mobbed by these smiling rural kids who had never seen the hairy arms and legs of a Muzungu and wondered what it felt like. It was charming, if a bit frightening. We munched a mountain of celebratory pineapples and I loaded 5 more into my backpack for the folks back in Kabale. 

During my weeks with Edirisa, I wrote small articles, worked on video productions (through regular power outages), built several more courts in villages with exotic names like Kashambya, and deepened my love of this amazing people. 

The hospitality I’d first encountered at that airport was reinforced over and over as waiters, coaches, teachers and musicians I met invited me to their village homes to meet their families and dine with my fingers. I soon became a fan of that matoke and posho I’d heard about in the airport.  

The common bond of sports and education and family is rich in the Baciga world, and I felt right at home. When I left I felt that the spirit of life I’d encountered in these lovely mountains and lakes and villages was a blessing — one that I wanted to share with my family and friends in California. And I have.

This blessing also proved seductive, and  through the next 10 years I’ve maintained communication with the many friends I made. The severe financial trials of Ugandan life, the elation of new children, the heartbreak of deaths and injuries, the pride of accomplishments have all been shared. And I’ve shared my similar highs and lows with them — through the magic of the internet and four return visits to the Pearl of Africa. I’ve come back to work with Edirisa, visit new babies, and to show my wife this very different world, and she, too, felt entranced. 

I’ve helped dozens of families in ways that I can, but they have helped me far more. I have found the fallacy in my preconceptions about Africa and discovered the glory of its ancient customs, values and lifestyles. In a dugout canoe unzipping the surface of Lake Bunyonyi, at a Rwandan school for the disabled, in a gorilla family in Mgahinga, on the glistening plumage of a sunbird—I’ve seen a continent’s true face and come to love it.

Back to Bunyonyi

A quick 27 hours of flying about the globe and Presto, I was back in Africa. The last leg, a 9 hour flight from Brussels to Kigali, Rwanda, laughed at the gray Alps, European forests, Mediterranean miles and the vast spans of the Sahara beneath us. All three oversized bags ($200 in excess baggage fees) burdened me not a whit.

The sparkling valleys of Rwanda’s glittering capitol were eventually familiar as I readjusted my perspectives to familiar smells, and dim streets teeming with African life. Glorious, as Miha, director of the Gorilla Highlands initiative, welcomed me  back while Boy David drove. Boy explained that his name used to be accurate 20 years ago when he was younger. He would remind me right off, how the rich sincerity of the people here is what truly fascinates.

We drank Waragi (war-gin) and lemon soda as we discussed tomorrow’s planned TV shoot, and the general thrust of our reality TV production. I, an American investor, Isabel Masozera, a dynamic Rwandan TV personality, and Miha would be looking for places to build a lodge to encourage not only foreigners, but local people to discover the beauty of these many stunning places. In East Africa, locals largely stay home, unable to bear the burden of tourist economies.

Ultimately we planned to use proceeds to bolster the impoverished and dispirited Batwa pigmy tribes of three countries (Rwanda, Congo Uganda) that have been deposed from their forests that blanket volcanoes where mountain gorillas and vast tourist wealth resides. We’ll vitalize job and construction markets locally, without importing expertise and development companies.

We explained all this to Florence, mayor of Burera district, where a gorgeous lake with Irish green shores might be perfect land for the community to give to us.  While Miha filmed, I gushed compassionate, the lovely Izy translated in three languages and a spectacular storm engulfed the trio of volcanos over our shoulder. Day one of shooting complete, in our ever evolving plot. 

Boy David vanned us over excellent roads north toward the Chaynika crossing into Uganda, where I’ve spent lots of time since retiring from several decades of correcting English papers and trying to beat the Dons. We arrived at Lake Bunyonyi, in the heart of Kabale district, home of the most fabulous people alive.

I spent the day today visiting old friends and distributing gently worn laptops, cellphones, volleyballs, kids clothes and shoes American friends donated to desperately needy students, new parents and fabulous Ugandan friends. I had watched the dawn with the new night guard, Spildon, the 18 year old grandson of the old night watchman, Tom, now my age and largely just watching - much like my volleyball role these days. Spildon now has a new pair of Nikes given by a La Colina PE teacher, brought to Africa by United Airlines. By the end of the day several friends and babies had joined me for a great reunion that went emotional when a young student called us all a Lee family in Kabale.

My cold water shower in an old worn enclosure, beneath the brilliant half moon, illuminated by a headlamp hung on a nail, came off without an injury. And if only I didn’t wish my wife and so many other friends were here, life seems perfect in my thatched mud walled bungalow. A slice of heaven.

Cooking in Kampala

I hear from home that it's cold. That's hard to imagine as I drip with sweat in this internet cafe in the swelter of Uganda's capital. I'll welcome the upcoming comforts of home, but cold showers are fine in this heat.

Tonight I fly home from Entebbe, where my three new college age friends and I played volleyball two days ago on the beach of Lake Victoria. The best player I've seen in Africa, Innocent, was a former Ugandan national team member and could have played college in California, but generally the level of play was strictly recreational. Good thing too, as the camel who strolled through the court would have irked the East Beach hard cores.

The breeze off the lake was welcome to the dozen people who shared Aero Beach with us in the afternoon, and attracted over 500  by the 5:00 cocktail hour. Two giant aircraft dominated the grassy flats beside the beach, one with Obama and "Yes We Can" painted on the tail. Pied kingfishers, pure white egrets, open-beaked storks, kites and eagles fished the water, while the vitality of Africa claimed the sands. Hundreds bathed in the whitecaps while groups of friends kicked soccer balls around, laid out in the sun without worry of sunburn, and hit my last volleyball over the somewhat saggy net. When play would lag due to ball retrieval, half the players would commence to dance (as no Mizungu can) to the heavy tunes that blasted from the huge speakers. It was a total party scene, a culture at play, reminding me of long ago Manhattan Opens and 6-man tournaments. My friends hustled chicks, took dips and laughed with other college friends, taking me back to the East Beach and Isla Vista of yesteryear in the late '60s and 70s. The beach still entertains.

Lira, 2/24 (my birthday)
My 3-day trip to Lira had been a stark contrast to the lush mountains and cool weather of Kabale. It was hot and flat. So room to build courts and sweat stains on my clothing were plentiful.


I crossed the raging Nile on the 6 hour trip from Kampala, to visit Lango College, and I could not have anticipated how welcome I would be. It seems that the 50ish headmaster, Albert, is a volleyball player, and while many claim this status, he actually is. So he wasted no time directing the groundwork for court construction. He wanted to play.

While eucalyptus poles were cut to size, I visited classrooms, labs and libraries where I saw the wonderful books that Vicky Harbison had bought for the school a year ago. I visited with fellow teachers who complained of poor English levels of some students, cell phones in class, and budget cuts. Imagine that. All schools here are theoretically taught in English, but any of a dozen tribal languages are the mother tongues of all Ugandans, and fluency in English defines their level of education. It seems the schools are graded on standardized test results given in English, despite the language problems in some outlying rural schools. All so much like home.

I also met leaders of All Saints University, including the chancellor who is also a Bishop in the Church of Uganda diocese. It is a small university, but growing, and a good site perhaps for research on post war recovery issues.


750 male high school aged students attend and live at Lango., a 50 year old secondary school (college). It stretches over 98 broad acres. 20 years of war in northern Uganda has eroded many institutions, including education, and most schools are trying to restore former programs. Lango is run down in some structural aspects, but boasts a brand new dining hall, a pristine library, rebuilt classrooms and an internet connection only one day old. They are looking to the future ... and a new court is part of that.

As a welcomed visitor, I addressed the mass of students in their first week of school, and their enthusiasm was familiar to any veteran coach or teacher. I'd installed the net, and this rugby powerhouse and football intensive culture seemed more than ready to accept this new sport. The 100s of dark faces would invariably smile as I made eye contact, and they humored my speech about sport uniting cultures and the relationship of academic and sports success. But they didn't really erupt until I challenged them to a game - faculty versus students.

In Lira, people are big, and there were at least 10 kids taller than my 6'3". But most were football (soccer) players and I told them that if anyone kicked the new yellow striped Wilson I'd given them he was "out". "You are out!!" became a frequent mass chant as many forgot the warning and reverted to using lower limbs.

Before long it became obvious that some of the faculty "players" weren't, and the students won the first four games. They would explode in laughter when a teacher would shank a ball or miss it entirely. Having played with the teachers, I was desperate for a win, so I invited Albert to take on the best six studs the students could offer. And like Boomer and I found out 35 years ago in Mallorca, two good players will usually beat 6 who are not so. I mercilessly served the weak passers and we notched a 15-8 victory. Very sweet. Post game I was woozy in the heat, but Albert glowed at the win he'll be able to remind kids about for years to come.

For the 20 minute bicycle taxi ride home I drank in the evening breeze, the familiar aftertaste of competition, the rich views of small town African life, and pitied the 110 pound rider who bore me -- I'm no light baggage. The fare, 70 cents. John Warren has carried me for years for even less.

The next morning I bussed back to Kampala, recrossing the Nile, and dodging the baboons loitering on the roadside. My final court had been constructed, my last student group addressed, and my last ball awarded to a school where play can now commence. I'm ready for home.

mpala