Workshop Post III

Written by Tor Erickson on his four months building latrines with the Batwa.

Some of the names in this blog have been changed.

I.

I first met James in his native village of Kitariro in December, 2008. We spent two hours together, mapping out future sites of latrines and talking with families he had grown up around and known his entire life. James had been appointed by his fellow villagers to help me with the task of recording the names of those who were slated to receive a latrine as part of the Rotary 3H grant. They chose him because he could read and write, and also spoke a little English. On our first encounter he was focused and serious. I liked him instantly.

James checking for square.

The second time our paths crossed was during the construction of the Rotary project’s first latrine. Some of the work for the latrine was voluntary, and some of it was paid. By showing up regularly and working hard, James managed to secure one of the paid positions. Nearly every day for a month I worked alongside him digging, mixing and pouring concrete, tying together the wire armature that would form the frame for the latrine, and mixing and applying plaster to that armature. During this time he showed an impressive capacity to apply himself to the task at hand and an equal capacity to speak out on occasion as an advocate for himself and his fellow Batwa workers. When a problem arose, and others would turn sullen and walk away, James would step forward and say his part with an energy that spoke of an intense, inner passion.

The third and last time that we would have occasion to spend time together was in March, 2009, in the village of Bikuto, a tiny collection of mud and grass huts near the edge of the Bwindi Impenetrable Forest. This time James had been chosen in a democratic process by his village to represent them in a skills-building workshop that I would lead, the goal of which was to place Batwa in the positions of skilled laborers in the upcoming construction projects called for in the Rotary 3H grant.

The nature of my relationship with James had changed since the construction of the first latrine in his village. At that time, his role was that of a laborer and sometimes mason, and mine was that of foreman. Sol and I hoped that during the construction of that latrine, some of the technical skills involved would be picked up by the Batwa workers, James included, but our primary purpose at the time was to finish the project in the way that construction projects are approached in the United States: as fast and cheap as possible. Since then we had established a different set of priorities. Our plan was to take a step back so that we could find the best way forward in working with the Batwa community.

Now my interactions with James would occur in a classroom setting. Success would not be measured by completing a latrine on schedule, or coming in under budget, but instead would be based on the answer to one question: did James and his seven other classmates in the workshop learn the necessary skills to complete construction of a latrine without outside help? We had one month.

Tor going over technical drawings with the workshop members.

The concept of the Bikuto workshop had evolved in the working conditions of the first latrine we built in the month of January. That experience had raised some tough questions about our approach and the attitude of the Batwa towards the Rotary project. In particular, we were forced to ask how to gather community support for a project whose initial conception and planning were undertaken outside of the community. There probably is no easy answer to that question but we thought that a start might be greater community involvement in the implementation of the grant, even at the more advanced stage where we found ourselves. We came up with the workshop as one way to facilitate that involvement.

This was at the end of January. As Sol and I discussed whether or not to proceed with the workshop, a major factor was time. My trip to Uganda was originally supposed to last for two months, and my return ticket had been for February 8^th. After a month in country I had changed that to April 8^th, but this still left us with precious little time to organize and implement the workshop, especially when you considered the way in which we wanted to go about it.

Sol and I had agreed that the selection of the participants in the workshop had to be democratic. The alternative would have been for the two of us to arbitrarily nominate participants of our choice (subject to the consent of the participant, of course). This would have been time efficient, but we rightfully feared that it would be a continuation of the sort of arbitrary exercise of power that had led to our initial problems with community involvement. By contrast, a democratic process of participant nomination, involving as much of the wider community as possible, would necessarily increase community participation and hopefully spark a deeper community response than we had been achieving. But democratic processes take time, and we were working with four different villages. This meant we would have to meet several times with each settlement to discuss the project, its scope, its intended purpose, and its methods. We would then have to ask each community to elect two representatives to attend the workshop, which would require discussion and meetings on their part. And if they needed more time or had more questions, there wasn’t much we would be able to do to hurry the process without threatening its democratic nature.

All this had to take place in the month of February, so that the workshop could begin in March so that we could conclude it by the beginning of April, when I was set to return to the States. February was a very busy month.

For weeks Sol and I traveled every day, sometimes together and sometimes apart. In the village of Kabyorwa we met with the Batwa in a circle underneath an emaciated shade tree. In Byumba it was on a patch of grass in the shadow of the newly constructed school. In Bikuto we perched on a bench on the edge of a ravine and in Kitariro I met with the assembled village in the carpenter’s shed. In each community we explained our plans and asked for feedback. In meetings that could last for three hours we brought first one, and then another, and then all four villages on board, each with the promise that they would choose workers by the end of the month, in time for the first day of class. On March 1^st, one day before class was set to start, I didn’t know of one single person who would definitely be there. I honestly showed up the first day simply hoping that there would be someone to teach.

Meeting held in the community of Kitariro. The women insisted on weaving their baskets while we talked.

II.

In all the time that I knew him, I saw James wear only two sets of clothes. The first was for everyday and work wear. It consisted of a pair of shorts, flip-flops, a collared, short-sleeved, knit shirt buttoned to the top, and an impossibly battered and faded red hat. He wore these clothes day in and day out, whether we were sitting in our makeshift classroom discussing fractions or pouring concrete in the baking, equatorial sun. The clothes were always clean.

His second outfit I saw only once. It was for formal occasions. It consisted of dark blue-jeans, lace-up leather shoes, and a crisp, new t-shirt. This is what he was wearing on the day he showed up for class. He shook my hand and then went to change into his work clothes.

The workshop was based on a simple premise. If we challenged and engaged the Batwa with something they judged to be worthwhile then they would respond by taking the initiative and applying themselves. The concept of ‘engagement’ was critical to our effort. Anybody who has worked in a job they didn’t care about knows what lack of engagement feels like, and anybody who has done work they care about deeply knows what it is to be fully engaged. You can’t force engagement, you can’t buy it with money and the only way I know how to measure it is in a conversation or by the look in someone’s eyes. And yet if we weren’t able to engage the Batwa we had the overwhelming feeling that our work in Uganda might produce some temporary changes in living conditions, but would leave the Batwa as a people no better off and perhaps even worse than before we had arrived.

The first day of class, it rained. Half of the total class was waiting for me when I showed up at 8:30 and I nervously hoped the rest would arrive soon (sure enough, by mid-morning the next day, we had a full complement of eight students). We crowded into the mud and grass hut of Bunan, a young man of 17 with movie star looks and an ever present sense of humor that was so soft and understated that an hour might pass before you realized he had been making a joke for your benefit. Hunched together in a room smaller than a walk-in closet I pulled out my tape measure while five sets of eyes followed my movements with interest. “This is a tape measure,” I said. “Has anyone used one of these before?” I waited for a moment for the translator, Philemon, to repeat the words in Rukiga. Five heads shook back and forth, no, none of them had. I swallowed. “Okay, well, today we’re going to learn how to use one. A tape measure tells you how long something is in feet and inches. This is an inch. And this is a foot.”

When the rain finally stopped and we emerged from Bunan’s hut, blinking at the light outside, we had spent over two hours in an abstract world of numbers. During that time everybody held the tape measure, everybody took turns reading it, and everyone measured something, again and again. Nobody wandered off, nobody took a nap, and there were no side conversations.

Bunan working on his tape measure skills.

The next day we set about building our classroom. I had spent many long nights thinking about this, and finally concluded that the workshop was going to fail miserably if we weren’t able to erect a shelter to keep the tropical rains off of us and our work. March 1^st marked the first day of the rainy season, and we expected to receive torrential downpours every single day we were working in Bikuto. I had conceived of a shelter made from locally available eucalyptus poles and plastic tarpaulins, but the specifics were hazy.

It was early morning, and all but one of the workshop participants had shown up. Everyone was milling around in an excited group, making connections with friends and relatives from different villages that they hadn’t seen in some time. “Okay, everybody, listen up,” I said. Conversation slowly ground to a halt and the group turned to face me. “We need to build a shelter,” I said. “With these.” I pointed to the poles. “And these.” The tarpaulins. There was a long moment of silence, people seemed to be waiting for me to say something else. I had no idea what that might be. “Now?” I suggested.

They exchanged looks, and finally Simon, one of the students from Bikuto, said, “We need tools.” We had tools. They needed nails. We had nails. They needed ladders. We built ladders.

An hour later I stood back and watched as eight Batwa men attacked construction on their new classroom, setting poles, hammering in cross beams, and dragging tarps onto the rafters. And from the top of a precarious, homemade tripod ladder, James led the way, hammer in hand, pocket full of spikes, working with a focus and ferocity that spilled over onto his fellows.

I began to feel hopeful.

III.

I’m not sure what it was specifically that caused James to excel in the workshop. Certainly a part of it was that he had at least a year of high school education, whereas most of the others hadn’t made it past third or fourth grade. And certainly part of it was that he was gifted with a natural intelligence and curiosity. He remembered things after being told one time, and if he didn’t understand a concept you could watch him working it over in his head, trying to sort it out until it made sense. And part of James’s success was due to his leadership abilities. Again and again the others would turn to him as a spokesman for their concerns or problems, and on any given project he would naturally take the lead, moving the others to their positions with short, snapped commands that grew quickly angry if he felt his performance standards weren’t being met, and then calm down just as quickly when they were . But I never saw this produce resentment or lead to a fight, and any crew James was working on produced the most efficient and cleanest results. I think his success was dependent on all of those things but none of them explained it completely. At least one other in the class had as much education as he did, and in the final exam that I administered, James finished second in both technical and verbal skills (first would go to James’s friend and neighbor, Godfrey, who aced the test with a grace and ease that left me choked up with pride). Instead, what it might have been, the common thread that extended through all of his work, was that James would invest himself in whatever it was that he applied himself to.

James had a habit when he was working of holding one hand, fist loosely folded, tucked just above the small of his back. To watch him he could have been a British gentleman out for a stroll, or the image that came to mind more often, an artist at work on his easel. With the other hand he would hold his mortar trowel or set of pliers and do the work in front of him. From time to time he would step back and appraise his progress. Whereas most of the others talked constantly while they worked, telling jokes and stories, or complaining about the factors in life that created hardship, James worked in almost complete silence. It wasn’t that he wasn’t personable, or enjoyed conversation. At lunchtime I could often hear his voice rising above the others in a tale about this or that, stories that usually ended in a cacophonous riot of laughter. Instead, I believe his silence at work showed a deep focus on the task at hand.

James in his Red hat standing next to Godfrey in his red shirt and Beth, our translator.

I could walk away for an hour and return to the jobsite and without a doubt point to the area where James had been working. The wire was tighter, the wire ties neater, the mortar smoother and more evenly applied, the concrete better compacted. This kind of attention, which is actually the ability to see oneself reflected in the products of one’s hands, cannot be taught, it can at best only be nurtured.

Teaching the workshop was exhausting and demanding. We had so little time, and there was so much to learn, that I pushed my students to the limits of what I thought they could take, mentally and physically. We would work as long as we could bear it in our open-sided classroom and then when the collective brain had reached its maximum level of saturation and attention began to wander, we would turn to back-breaking physical labor for a break. The raw materials involved in our latrines were sand, rock, cement, and water, and we carried all of those things again and again and again. I watched a 100 pound man sling a 120 pound sack of cement onto his head and jog with it up and down a valley. We raced with bags of sand and jerry cans of water. And when the day called for digging, the class fell to it with a vigor and determination that I was hard-pressed to match.

And then when our bodies were exhausted, we would sit down again in the shade of our classroom and return to the abstract concepts of square, and straight, and plumb.

The steep hillsides of Bikuto added greatly to the physical challenge of carrying 100 lb sacks of cement, sand, and gravel.

Some days were better than others. Some days I would struggle with and fail to get past what I thought would be one, tiny concept, and some days the attention of the class would be so scattered that we would simply drop everything and devote the day to work with a wheelbarrow and shovel. I had plenty of time to reflect back on teachers in my past, many of whom I had shared with Sol, and their infinite patience in dealing with us students day in and day out.

But then there would be days where the work flowed, and the students would jump to the next task, seizing initiative and leadership for themselves, taking the chalk from my fingers and drawing their own diagrams on the board to clarify the concept of fractions. I learned to live for those days and simply grit my teeth and bear it on the others.

Workshopers crowd around to get a look at one of Tor's teaching points.

And over time, the lessons started to catch on. Mixing concrete to a given ratio, measuring to within a quarter inch with a tape measure, building the wire armature for our ferrocement floors and walls, correctly placing steel reinforcement in the foundation, explaining the effect of water on concrete and mortar mixes, and, most difficult of all, precisely laying out the perfectly square perimeter of a foundation with stakes and mason’s line. Not everyone got everything, and there were some students who were clearly excelling: Godfrey and James from Kitariro, Bunan from Bikuto, and Christopher from Byumba, but as a group they began to consistently demonstrate the ability to complete tasks on their own. I took on the habit of splitting the class into two groups, leaving one to erect the plywood forms for the walls, or stretch wire mesh over the floor armature, while I worked on technical skills with the second group, and invariably when we went to check on the first we would find work progressing beautifully.

Kenneth, Tinfayo, and Bunan (from left to right) marking the depth that the concrete should be poured for the footing of a latrine .

I couldn’t help but notice that when I wasn’t around they were starting to perform more efficiently and produce better results than when I was. I could only assume that without me present they were tackling the problems on their own without relying on me as a motivational spur.

This was the best possible news we could hope for as after four short weeks of class I would leave Bwindi and any information or skills that I had failed to pass on would leave with me.

IV.

Christopher (Tofa) honing his skills with the square.

In the end there was a test. The test was a comprehensive review of everything we had covered in the past month. It had a technical, skills-based section that covered items like wire-tying, testing soil for its ability to support a structure, and laying out a foundation. The test also had a verbal section that asked the participants to name the four ingredients of concrete and to explain the function of wire mesh in ferrocement.

Passing the test meant a pay raise and a job working on future Rotary projects. Failing meant a handshake and a thank you. This decision, to make failure an option, was perhaps the most difficult choice we had to make going into the workshop. Our final decision was based on two factors. First, making failure a distinct possibility would give a greater sense of importance to the work in the class. The second factor arose from a practical standpoint. It was possible that Sol would be working with these people for a long time to come, and if they were unable to competently and efficiently perform the work he needed it would inevitably lead to problems. Better to confront the issue now, up front.

Administering the exam took just over nine hours. I met with one student at a time in the shade of our tarpaulin classroom. In attendance over the course of the day were a growing number of guests. The only thing we asked of a guest was that they participate in the exam by acting as an assistant to the student, holding the end of a tape measure or pulling on a sheet of wire mesh. The mood of the day was focused, but not somber. Bunan answered questions with the same ease and intelligence that he had exhibited for the past four weeks. Godfrey demonstrated a stunning competence and knowledge. James was so nervous and determined to do well that we stopped halfway through to take a break where he could take a few deep breaths.

For some of the others, it was more of a struggle. Those who had demonstrated a high level of engagement through the workshop saw it reflected in their performance on the exam. For those whose attention had been elsewhere, or who tended to take a backseat while their fellows did the lion’s share of the work or answered or asked most of the questions, the test didn’t go so well.

Of the eight students in the class, four passed. We informed people of their scores in the same way we had tested them, one at a time in a private talk. Sol delivered the news, but simply sitting there and observing when he informed those who hadn’t passed of the results was a gut-wrenching experience. Likewise, for those who had done well feelings of pride and happiness on my part were enough to bring tears to my eyes. As I tried to congratulate James on passing and explain in just a few short sentences what I thought his potential was, I was forced to stop a number of times as my emotions threatened to overwhelm. He watched me, his face an unreadable mask, nodded when I had finished, and turned around to walk away without a word before I chased him down to shake his hand. If all goes well, these will be the men to lead the Rotary construction efforts in Southwest Uganda.

It remains to be seen whether the workshop will produce the results we desired. In my time in Uganda I learned that community ownership of a project can be an elusive thing to catch. For now my hopes rest with four talented, young men, one of them wearing a battered and sun-weathered, red baseball cap.

Tor smiling for the camera and contemplating a sequel to his adventure in Uganda!

Workshop Post II

Tor and community memebers from the Batwa settlement of Kitariro setting a latrine floor in place.

Written by Tor Erickson on his four months building latrines with the Batwa.

“Just a quick update on my final stage of work in Uganda. Starting on Monday I'll be leading a one-month workshop on ferrocement latrine construction in the Batwa settlement of Bikuto. If I’m able to make a single contribution to our work effort here in Africa it will be this workshop, so that when I leave in April the knowledge on how to build these latrines will stay here with the Batwa people.”
- From a letter to my parents, dated March 1, 2009

Bikuto is the most beautiful of the Batwa settlements in Kanungu District, a double cluster of mud and thatch huts spanning a deep valley. From a high vantage point in the village you can see for miles in all directions, and it's possible to be sitting in the sunshine and looking out across four or five ridges to a distant peak shrouded in black clouds receiving a heavy rain.

Photo of Bikuto environs
The people from Bikuto are tough and out-spoken. In my time there I found them quick to laugh and joke, but just as quick to turn heated or angry if they sensed an injustice or a slight. There was Petronea and her husband Tegume, always active at some labor and always ready with a joke or a smile when I would show up in the morning. Or quiet Furjenz and his wife Generous, a strident defender of her family and village’s rights, and possessing one of the more impressive sets of biceps in East Africa. Then there was Jackson and Charles, both noticeably taller and more reserved than their neighbors. It was some weeks before we learned that these men had come from the south, from the district of Kisoro on the border with Rwanda, with their families several years earlier.

Generous with her grandson Sol, believe it or not.

Our plan for Bikuto was one that we had developed over the past three months of work in Uganda. It derived from conversations with a number of NGOs and individuals doing development work with the Batwa. It was also a response to our experience of building our first latrine in one of the villages of Kanungu District. That experience, during the month of January, was instrumental in opening our eyes to the potential of development work to disempower those very people you are trying to help. It was also a hint that without the correct strategy working with the Batwa was not always going to be a joyous partnership of hard work and shared accomplishment.

This last was a point that was driven home during the construction of our sample latrine. Most of our work had been theoretical up to this point, and this was going to be the first time that the Rotary 3H project was going to ‘get its feet wet’ and actually build something. Sol and I had a lot of different expectations and apprehensions going into this project but generally we expected to enjoy widespread community support. What exactly this support would look like, we couldn’t say exactly, but we felt certain that we would recognize it when we saw it and that it would involve some form of ‘chipping in’ on the construction project without expectations of compensation.

What can I say? In retrospect those were naïve assumptions to the core and Sol and I received a brutal, overnight lesson in the realities of development work. This was perhaps best illustrated the day the chairman of the village was to put in his labor to complete the latrine.

As part of the agreement we had forged with the village, every family that was slated to receive a latrine from the Rotary project would contribute a day of labor to the construction of the first latrine. This seemed logical to us as the sample latrine we were building would be used by the staff of the community clinic and by a community carpenter’s shop. It also seemed to make sense to us because by involving the community members in the construction process they could begin to learn some of the skills necessary to work on their own latrines. This labor was supposed to be voluntary and without compensation.

The women of Kitariro after plastering a section of floor for a latrine.

Every morning I would show up after an hour long motorcycle ride and meet with the Mukiga mason who was providing technical advise and experience to the project and see who from the village would be working that day. Work would then begin and we would set about accomplishing whatever that day’s task was, be it pouring a concrete foundation or framing the walls and roof. I felt that the best way to produce a good work ethic on the job site was to work as hard as I could myself and set the tone, hoping that others would follow along. It didn’t take long for me to realize this wasn’t producing the desired results. A couple of days into construction the chairman of the village, a man with impressive sideburns and a smile that suggested someone with a few too many responsibilities on his plate, took his turn to represent his family in the construction process.

I remember working my hardest to tie together the wire armature for the floor of the latrine, baking in the sun, sweat pouring down my back, and all the while the chairman squatting back on his haunches chewing a piece of sugarcane, watching with curiosity. Through a translator I suggested he help with tying the wire. He shrugged. A bit later, I asked if he could perhaps cut us lengths of wire to make up the wire ties. He worked for a few minutes and then stopped, resuming his observational stance. I explained to him that our agreement was for a full day of work. Eventually he grew tired of my nagging and wandered off.

From left to right Mahano, Solomon, and Muhzei tying together a floor armature just before plastering with cement and sand.

The chairman’s attitude though extreme was not atypical. Anyone who spent more than an hour on the jobsite would realize that something was not quite right. The Batwa had little to no sense of ownership of the process. They were interested in receiving the end product, a nice, permanent latrine, but their approach to the work said that they felt they would get it regardless of how much effort they put in themselves.

This was discouraging. In fact, it was frustrating and disheartening to the extreme. We knew that at any point we could simply have spent a little more money, hired laborers and masons, perhaps even the same people who were supposed to be volunteering, and finished the latrine without a hitch. But there was something deep inside that balked at the idea, something that raised an eyebrow and cocked a head at the thought of paying people to do something beneficial for themselves, and something that asked the question ‘why wouldn’t they jump at the chance to help themselves and their community?’ So we hobbled through the first latrine, all the while vowing that the next one would be built under different conditions. In the meantime we had been slapped in the face with the question of ‘why’? Why were the Batwa acting this way? Why were they content to let a white-skinned foreigner labor away on one of their community projects while they sat idly by and chatted?

Sol and I simply refused to believe what the local Bakiga people would earnestly tell us at every possible opportunity--- that the Batwa were lazy by nature and would never make good workers. These comments stunk of racism and besides, we had both seen the Batwa move and work with impressive energy and force when they felt so compelled. There was something about our project that had failed to hook them. They wanted latrines, they understood the need, but they saw the work that we were doing as something totally external to them and their efforts. We had come from somewhere beyond and when we left there would be a trail of latrines behind us and the Batwa could work or not and it wouldn’t change a thing. It was at this time that we began to think of the nature of development work that had come before us, and the effects that it had had upon the Batwa. It also gave us a chance to reflect on the dangers of a development project that is conceived and initiated outside of the target community. One of the greatest chances for ownership, project conception, had already been taken out of the Batwa’s hands.

This was the fertile ground from which the workshop in Bikuto arose. We wanted a work environment with more accountability. We wanted a work environment that fostered a greater sense of community ownership of the construction process. And we had realized that the intangible things you leave behind you can be as or more powerful than the tangibles. In this case the tangible was going to be the latrine, and the intangible was how the community was engaged in constructing that latrine. Part of this engagement would be the learning of the skills needed to build it.

The typical approach when attempting some sort of a development project in a Batwa community in Kanungu district has been to hire skilled labor from the local Bakiga population and then utilize the Batwa to fill the role of manual laborers, carrying sand, water and other supplies, digging, and performing all the other odd ‘gofer’ jobs that a construction site demands. There are two main effects of this division of labor, neither one of them desirable from our point of view. The first was that paid Bakiga workers receive wages that were several times greater than the unskilled Batwa, effectively funneling a portion of the development funds out of the Batwa community. The second was a marginalizing effect on the Batwa as they watched outsiders do all of the ‘important’ work on the job while they themselves were left to do the menial labor.

Our hope was that a workshop whose purpose was to teach the necessary construction skills to build a latrine from foundation to roof to a motivated group of Batwa would circumvent both of these issues. We also hoped that a skilled Batwa workforce would go a long ways towards engaging the community and would give the Batwa people a greater sense of ownership of the project (imagine you live in a small town and a big construction job comes up, say, to build a new county library. In one scenario a local contractor gets the job and every day that you drive by the jobsite you see people you’ve grown up with and have known your entire life doing the work. You might feel like the new library was more a part of the community, or that by extension you had some stake in it because people you knew were doing the work. And if the day came when the library was asking for volunteers to help out, you might be more inclined to show up, since it was someone you knew who was asking. Now imagine how it might feel different if an out-of-state contractor were awarded the job and he brought in his own, out-of-state crew to do the work).

Batwa masons tying wires for a latrine floor.

This was our basis for the workshop. By the end of January we had committed to giving it a try. The only problem was that we had only a hazy idea of what the workshop would actually look like. Who would participate? How would those participants be chosen? What would the curriculum consist of? Where would it be held (this was before we had met with Bikuto and they had agreed for their village to be the host of the workshop)?

In the next blog entry I will go into detail about how we answered these questions and how the workshop itself played out in the month of March.

The Pace of Development Work

Tor and I with the members of our recent latrine building workshop. The lone woman in the photo is Beth, our translator.
(Note: This is the first part of a three part series describing our efforts to run a technical skills workshop for the Batwa in the month of March. The first and second parts of this series will focus on our efforts leading up to the workshop, and the third part will deal with how the workshop played out and the future of our work in Uganda).

It has been a hectic time here recently in Bwindi. I realized a couple weeks ago that Tor and I had only taken two short trips outside of Bwindi since Christmas. We were well past due for checking out some of the sights Uganda has to offer. I was also looking to find some much needed perspective on working with the communities here. Unfortunately, during this time I had to say goodbye to my close friend Tor Erickson who has contributed so much personal and professional support during the last four months.

To get away Tor and I took a great trip out to eastern Uganda with a young Dutch musician, Tina, who has been working with children in Gulu, a city in the war torn north, and her brother Tom. First we headed out to Sipi Falls, a set of spectacular waterfalls on the Sipi River which drains the western flank of Mt Elgon. Mt Elgon is an ancient volcano on the edge of the Great Rift Valley along the Kenyan border.

The lowest and largest of three spectacular Falls in the Sipi Falls region that drains off of Mt Elgon.

Our first experience of the mountain was in the waning light of dusk. Under falling darkness we could just make out the outline of a massively broad landmass lifting up from the flat plain. What we saw was not the form of a young, cone shaped volcano ready to rupture but that of an ancient volcano that had seen its day in the sun and was slowly, inexorably eroding back into the plain. Fittingly, the mountain took the form of a sleeping person spent from millions of years of geologic activity.

Tired and weary ourselves from hundreds of kilometers of driving we arrived at our lodge under the blanket of darkness. My first sense of Sipi Falls was the hushed sound of running water and chattering birds. All we could see was a faint, rugged ridgeline silhouetted against an imperceptibly lighter sky.

I greatly enjoy experiencing a place arriving for the first time while it is still dark out. Sight can often overwhelm our other senses. Darkness forces us to a more balanced use of our faculties, contributing to a more complete experience of a place.

We spent a couple days exploring this spectacular region. On the final day Tor and I hesitantly signed up to go climbing. We could only imagine the kind of climbing equipment we would find in a country that is known for squeezing every last bit of functionality out of a piece of equipment until it breaks for good and is then used for another purpose. We were pleasantly surprised to find up-to-date climbing gear and cleanly bolted routes. The rock was an old Lahar mudflow dotted with protruding chunks of stone that made for great handholds. The climbing was superb and during rest periods, in between climbs, we enjoyed fantastic views stretching out to northern Uganda. We finished up our climb and then were off to Kampala to run some errands and, sadly, to say goodbye to Tor.

Goofing off on the waterfall hike at Sipi. From left to right Tor, Tina, Tom, and our overprotective guide Fred.

Traveling around in Mt. Elgon I was struck (not for the first time) by how long certain natural processes take. How many millions of years did it take Mt. Elgon to lift up from the Rift Valley and then to wear down to the nub that currently exists? A nub thirteen thousand feet tall and encompassing twenty square miles, to be sure, but we have to remember that at one time it used to be a much taller mountain than Kilimanjaro.

These thoughts on time also made me think of how long processes take for humans. How do humans create the social structures that they live in and how long do those structures take to form? Africa has had its entire tribal social structure ripped to shreds by the division and the subsequent domination of the continent by European colonialists. Then, just as the people seemed to be coming to some kind of equilibrium with a new set of colonial rules, independence struck and the rules shifted yet again. It was a cultural whiplash that happened in an instant but its fallout has lasted for decades. The adjustments that people have made have been incredibly painful and have triggered side effects of lawlessness, corruption, war, starvation, oppression, and poverty.

It is the same for the Batwa. For thousands of years they lived in a social structure adapted to rules and guidelines set by the forest. Banned from the forest in 1994 they are now forced to live by a different set of rules, a set of rules that they lack the education and cultural background to effectively cope with. This is why humanitarian efforts that simply give money or goods, or implement projects without carefully consulting the Batwa and allowing them to organize to fully benefit from the projects can be so dangerous. Without the requisite education and community organization the projects will, at best, fail, and at worst community dynamics and relationships can be disrupted and dependence on outside handouts can become heavily relied upon.

Batwa Children of the Bikuto settlement hanging around at the drinking and bathing water source for the community.

One specific danger of the ‘charity’ style of humanitarian efforts is that much of the funding for these efforts can end up being funneled to those on the ground who have the best education or who sit in positions of power. Frequently these are the people least in need of help and rarely are they the intended recipients of the aid. Because of their local status as influential community members or their education they are the ones who are best able to communicate with and direct NGOs or philanthropists. As a result, funding for community development often does not effectively find its way to the people who are the intended target and instead money goes to those who can best communicate with the donors.

That is why it is so important that we work within communities to build skill sets, whether those skill sets be organizational or labor oriented, so they can truly be the owners and beneficiaries of the projects that come their way.

I feel we took a great step towards promoting project ownership and building community skill sets by running a latrine building workshop for the Batwa. The workshop was attended by eight community-chosen Batwa from four different villages. Its purpose was to teach the necessary construction techniques to build latrines from the foundation to the roof, without the help of any outside masons or carpenters. Tor did an outstanding job engaging the Batwa and teaching the necessary skills. In the next installment of this blog, I will leave it to Tor to describe the philosophy and background of the class. In the final installment, Tor will talk about how the month-long workshop actually played out and I will discuss where we hope to go in the future.

Pictures:

Cooking lunch at the conclusion of our latrine building workshop in Bikuto. Simon (left) was one of eight participants and Syverin was the cook for the duration of the workshop.


Members of the latrine building workshop. Above: Muhzei. Below from left to right is: Kenneth, Medad, Simon, Lokolo (pronounced Rokoro), Tofa, Tinfyo, and Moses.

Cutting heads. Syverin holds two chickens in their death throes.

Fisherman preparing their nets on the shore of Lake Edward in the fishing village of Kisenyi. Kisenyi is one of three villages surrounding by Queen Elizabeth national park because they were there before the park was designated.

The coolest kid in Uganda. Unfortunately it was a mammoth effort trying to get these shades back from him.

Tor teaching the workshop with Beth our translator and using a blackboard. Can you tell us what the 4 components of concrete are?...

Tor posing in front of the ferrocement latrine build during the workshop.

Tinfyo seeking cover during a windstorm in Bikuto. The thatch is blowing off of the building behind him.

Me standing in front of a massive strangler fig tree in Entebbe just south of Kampala.

Wild insect life on an island that we visited on the Nile. The first photo is of an unreal preying mantis type creature feeding on some a dragonfly. The second photo is a line up of dragonflies on a branch.

Keeping on

The Batwa getting down at a recent visit to the Bikuto settlement. The dancing is a combination of a burst of quick jumps while stomping your feet down and some fancy foot work in between.


Agandi everyone,

Before I realized it February in Bwindi was gone in a flash. The guesthouse, where I take my meals, work, and find social sustenance, has seen many new faces and said goodbye others. This month we were graced with the presence of two pediatricians (Elizabeth and Annie) from the states, a neo-natal nurse from Denmark (Anna) as well as two med students from Denmark (Christian and Eva).

A photo of the February crew. From left to right (back) is Elizabeth, Annie, Der, myself and Tor and also left to right (front) is Apiyo, Carol, and Anna. Apiyo and Carol work as staff at the hospital and the rest are guesthouse wayfarers.

The guesthouse is such a great mix of culture, language, and background is. The conversations that you have over meals range across the globe (literally and figuratively) encompassing politics, religion, food, adventures…etc. Because of the strong hospital presence here, inevitably the conversations will turn to infectious disease, tropical ulcers, and the parasites that infest the local human population. This morning I realized how much my tolerance had grown here when I was able to happily eat my French toast with plum jam while Eva, told stories about patients vomiting blood full of hookworms!

Also this month we had a visit from Reno Rotarian Dr. Bob Clift and his wife and Linda Clift. Their visit was thoroughly enjoyable. We visited several Batwa settlements where projects are ongoing and they had the opportunity to see our approach to the projects and provide input. Bob and Linda really embraced the effort we are putting in here to build sustainable, community owned projects.

While they were here, Bob and Linda had a chance to sit in on a meeting for the goat portion of the project. Realizing that we know very little about how the Batwa cultural and social systems work Paul and I decided to hold a meeting where the Batwa have an opportunity to teach other Batwa. Mpungu is a Batwa settlement that is currently running a very successful goat project and we brought them over to talk to the beneficiaries of our goat project. The meeting brought out all kinds of issues and ideas that I had not thought of before. For example the folks at Mpungu seemed to think that perhaps the greatest benefit of having goats in their settlement is not for milk or meat but for fertilizer for their crops. It also brought out issues of land ownership and how the community needs to think about how to graze their goats and still be respectful to their neighbors.


Paul Muhwezi facilitating a meeting for the goat project.


Rotarian Bob Clift assessing the situation at the Batwa goat meeting at the settlement of Kitariro.

After the meeting Bob Clift expressed to me how important community ownership was becoming in his mind. He explained how he plans to bring that message back to his Rotary Club in Reno and to put a greater emphasis on the incorporation of community involvement. All I could do was nod in agreement. I’m looking forward to some of that feedback.

The Batwa breaking into dance with Linda Clift caught in the middle.

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It seems that my tolerance for discomfort has grown immensely since my arrival to Bwindi in September though I can definitively say it will never compare to the tolerance of peoples from Uganda. From walking miles and miles everyday to carrying giant stacks of firewood on their heads to piling 20 people in the back of a pickup that is already full of bags of corn flour, matoke (green bananas) and other supplies to making gravel by hitting large rocks with a hammer until they become small rocks. Paul, my Mukiga partner the other day tried to bring jerry cans full of gasoline into the cab of the truck as we were heading home from the field. I told him that the fumes were going to make me sick and he gave me a look of pity as if the poor Mzungu would never be able to make his way through Uganda without him. Which to some degree I cannot argue with.Pediatrician Annie hoops taking a photo of Batwa children at the Mpungu settlement.

Tor was talking to me the other day about how he didn’t think that he could return to the states and deal with complaints of people that were anything short of emotional or physical disaster. There seems to be much less sympathy for others misfortune here as life tends to hold a certain degree of heartache and physical suffering for everyone. It’s almost as if there is an intrinsic empathy and because everyone suffers there is no need to acknowledge it. Although open displays of sympathy for others is rare there is much humor and excitement in the Ugandan culture in sharing the stories of others misfortune. Many of these stories fall under the category of “if I didn’t laugh I would probably cry.”

For example:
Tor and I the other day were hanging out at a Batwa settlement, known as Bikuto, trying to set up a building workshop with the people there. We sent a gopher to pick up a phone number from the other side of the settlement that was down a ravine and back up the other side. In fascination we watched with the Batwa women the young man run full speed down into the ravine and back up the other side; the low lying tea plants allowing us to watch every step. On his return trip we watched his red shirt screaming down the other side of the ravine set against the light green tea leaves. Without warning he pitched forward cart-wheeled and slammed into the tea bushes. The Batwa ladies burst into laughter as Tor and I sat there with our mouths hanging open. He immediately recovered went back up the hill for the pen and phone number and continued his charge down the hill. Luckily he was not injured.Tor getting goofy with Petronea a Batwa woman with more character in her pinky than most people will ever show in their entire lives.

I feel like I have experienced every emotion possible since I arrived here in Bwindi. I think this spectrum of emotions just fits into a place like Bwindi. Great sorrow and great joy walk hand in hand here like no place I have ever been. The willingness of people here to move on with their lives despite tragic accidents or debilitating injuries is sometimes hard to make sense of being the westerner that I am. We tend to dwell on those times we were cheated or injured or lost big. Here I think that life is just too hard to dwell on what went wrong this would just lead to too many opportunities lost. It’s probably an experience that every person from the states could benefit from.Me showing off my first care package! It only took 2 and a half months to show up. It contained gummy bears, gummy ginger candy, socks (!), tea, bandaids, salaami, and much much much more.Photo of me defending my care package from Phillip by any means necessary. Phillip is the guesthouse cook.Butterflies of Bwindi. During the dry season the butterflies congregate in the thousands around standing water. It is a pure delight.

Scott Kellermann giving a thumbs up to the cow intestines and stomach linings hanging at a local butchery. Looks disgusting, smells awful, and tastes great (at least to the locals).

Annie Hoopes hanging out with a Batwa child from Kitariro during an outreach.

Gorillas crossing the road near one of the safari camps. The gorillas have been particularly active around the human settlements in Bwindi lately. This gives the Uganda Wildlife Authority fits when Mzungus see the gorillas without paying their 500 bucks!


An outrageously beautiful butterfly, speaks for itself.

Community with a capital "C"

Batwa community members of Bikuto with Batwa Development Program staff member Levi Besingye (in the motorcycle helment).

Hello everybody! It has been an especially full month here in Bwindi as we attempt to get the water and sanitation projects off the ground. My days are generally composed of waking up around 7 am and driving a motorcycle down to the guest house where I will fill up on coffee and an omelet before talking over the days plan with my partners Paul Muhwezi and Tor Erickson. By 9 am we are usually off in the field working for community meetings or project implementation. Field work lasts anywhere from 6 to 14 hours depending on the day’s activities and then back to the guest house to compile notes, finalize community contracts, and check e-mails (and dinner!). I’ve found with all of the logistics and grant management that it has been difficult not to lose sight of the most important aspects of this work namely, community involvement in the projects and community awareness on issues regarding water borne illnesses.

All of my encounters with the NGOs (which are a heavy presence in SW Uganda) and local government here stress the importance of community participation but I am finding that there is a vast difference between what is spoken and what is implemented. One complexity that I did not realize coming into this work was that communities in Southwestern Uganda are painfully aware of the NGO presence here and will jump at the chance, if given, for community projects. Any help is good help?

I though my greatest challenge here would be trying to convince communities of the importance of the projects that we would like to implement. Instead communities are accepting the projects and in some cases are not concerned about being convinced. They just want what other communities have received from NGOs, expensive projects. Thus our approach is beginning to evolve and we are putting a heavier emphasis on dialogue with the communities.

The focus of our outreach is now more centered on finding out what the communities want for their people and what they know about clean water and sanitation. If projects have been implemented in the past and failed, why? One community that we have been working with has three giant school latrines (provided by NGOs) lined up in a row and only one of the latrines is operational. The other two are collapsing and crumbling. Maybe this is a case of poor workmanship or maybe it is the case of a community accepting a project without being involved enough to insure that the work gets done properly.

Our team has been trying to tease out what constitutes “buying in” for each community. One way I am starting to look at this is what kind of contribution from the community is a great enough sacrifice that they will feel a sense of obligation for sustaining the projects. We are trying to find that balance between pushing a community to its limit in terms of contribution without overwhelming them to the point where the projects never get off the ground. That limit is different for every community.

For example the Batwa don’t seem to value the blood sweat and tears of manual labor as much as their Bakiga neighbors. So while working with them even the hardest labor I can think of, namely digging the pits for pit latrines still does not necessarily constitute buying into the projects. So we are looking for something more, some other way that they can contribute. Whether that be cooking the meals for the workers of the projects or utilizing some resource available to the community we are still feeling it out and fine tuning the process. The dialogues have been getting more in depth and I feel like we are starting to gain a lot of knowledge on why projects in the past have failed.

Mutwa Fergans demonstrating how to climb down into the pit of a future pit latrine to dig. These pits are commonly dug in excess of 20 feet deep leading to concerns about groundwater contamination.

Recently we protected our first spring!! It was a spring in the village of Iraaro just 20 minutes east of our location near the hospital. It was a spring that I had visited in 2006 when I visited the area for the first time. Water had escaped from the original protected spring delivery pipe and was flowing underneath the catch basin leaving only a trickle issuing from the delivery pipe.

With the assistance of the district water officer and about 15 community members we opened the spring up to diagnose the problem. After 2 hours of digging we uncovered a cement box that the spring water passed through. The box was between the eye of the spring (the location where the water originates) and the delivery pipe and was full of gravel. On top of the gravels was a thick mat of very fine dark purple roots. Although a surprising development, nothing prepared me for the 3 foot long root wad that was pulled from the pipe above the cement box as water gushed out of the delivery pipe. The root wad filled the entire diameter of the pipe and was completely blocking the flow of water. With my mouth hanging open I could only marvel with wonder and disgust at how one root wad had blocked this community from having clean water for 10 years.

Community contribution of labor. These women are carrying stones to be placed in the uncovered spring to protect the water channel from collapsing.

We continued to dig up the spring and found more and more purple root mats. We followed them up to a stand of ten banana trees sitting above the spring. Who owned the banana trees was my immediate question which was answered by silent looks over at the spring committee chairman! How ironic! The chairman was even bold enough to ask the community to compensate him for removing the trees though I don’t think the community were having any of it (and neither should they in my mind). The spring is now filling a 20 liter jerry can in 2 minutes versus 15 minutes before the roots were removed.

I have now worked with the Iraaro community to protect their water sources for a total of around 20 hours including education, training, and spring protection. It is now my goal to take the momentum of this successful project to restore clean water to a community and involve those people in neighboring projects. Having this exchange of information makes my life much easier and allows local knowledge of spring protection to be passed on without a middle man. Even misinformation exchanged in this manner allows me to better understand what people know and where knowledge gaps exist not to mention where my own knowledge gaps exist. I’ve always said you never truly know something until you can teach it.

Well I’m beat. It’s a late Saturday afternoon in Bwindi and I am ready for some exercise and maybe a nap. This evening folks from the guesthouse will be grilling up fajitas with chapattis in place of tortillas. Weekend here I come! Take care.

Photos
A muhzee (name for a respected elder) resting after clearing vegetation from his spring to maintain the community drinking water source.


A three way encounter that nature never intended. Monkeys, turkeys, and humans.

Young man preparing aggregate that is used in concrete. This is a simple procedure of smacking rocks with a hammer until you have the right aggregate size.

Tor plastering a sample latrine wall using ferrocement. Ferrocement is a labor intensive procedure whereby cement and sand is plastered onto a framework of wire and reeds. The resulting wall is lightweight and uses a fraction of the cement costs.


A boy demonstrating a toy created by capturing a large wood boring insect and hooking a stiff piece of grass under the exoskeleton. The child is blowing on the insect to get it to beat its wings.