How I Spent 60,000 In One Day

On my last day in Uganda, I set out to play soccer. An hour later, I was down 60,000 Ugandan shillings, never touched a ball and was filled with joy beyond description.

Throughout our time in Uganda I had one personal goal. I wanted to play soccer. During my trip to Haiti two years ago, soccer or futbol, was the one thing that broke the language and race barrier between myself and the Haitian people. I was determined to find a field in Uganda and try my best to keep up with the Ugandans. I was even looking forward to being laughed at as I stumbled up a rocky field; white people in general are very hilarious to Ugandans for some reason. So as the days went by I kept my eyes peeled for every opportunity to get just one kick in. During one Pampers Outreach Clinic, we were working next to a huge game and I could barely keep my eye on the camera hoping a ball would roll out of bounds and I could find some way into the game. Unfortunately, it was 5 PM on our last day in Uganda and I had yet to even touch a soccer ball. This may be because they really didnt want to play with a goofy mzungu, but Im going to blame it on our hectic schedule. With an hour before the sunset, I headed out from the hotel alone looking for a teenager whom I had met three days before. I was on the hunt for any game I could find. As I walked through the dirt roads of Moroto I discreetly scanned the villages for any sign of a soccer ball, and listened intently for a scream of joy. Eventually a small girl ran up to me with a huge smile on her face and showed me her wrist. Dangling from her thin arm was a three day old purple glo-stick bracelet. The last time I had been in this area, AJ, Carter and I gave out 30 of these bracelets to the children. I held her hand and we sat on a collapsed well. As we sat in silence, 10 feet away from about 20 of the dirtiest pigs I have ever had the pleasure of smelling in my life, more and more people began to wander over toward the mzungu. One boy who looked to be about 20, walked over to me with a smoldering cigarette in his left hand. He said mugunzo! in a tone that would have sent me running in New York, but in this small village in northeastern Uganda I felt perfectly safe. I stood up and walked over to the boy and stuck my hand out. He immediately shook my hand and smiled. How are you? I told him I was well and right before I could ask him where I could find the closest soccer ball an older man grabbed me by the shoulder and spun me around. Before I could comprehend who and what had grabbed me, a rough hand was shaking mine firmly. He introduced himself in perfect English. I greeted him back, and the first boy I had spoken to told me that this was his father. Both the father and the son were very educated and were the best English speakers I had met in the Karamoja region. After our informal greeting the two men insisted on showing me around their village. I agreed and I began to follow them around. As we walked into different homes he began to tell me about the problems he has seen. This man was the first Ugandan I had spoken to that recognized the problems of corruption and misrepresentation in the country.

He told me that the representative for his region spends more money on his car than he allocates for this city in aid. He blamed the corruption in the government for a lot of the problems that he faced, and he was 100 percent right. I had heard all of this before, multiple times, from outside sources. We were told by UNICEF, AVSI and the U.S. Embassy about these problems but were told to not speak of them to Ugandans, who would find it offensive. However, this man had no such problem openly discussing the countrys corrupt leadership. I was immediately drawn to him, his passion for his neighbors and his family was inspiring. His son would chime in as they lead me through the paths of the village. This was not the African village you seen on post cards. It was a mixture of mud huts with reed roofs, huts with tin roofs, fires and water wells, old machinery and rusty car parts. The father would take breaks from his intellectual conversation to introduce me to every man, woman and child he knew in the village. As I met these people he would tell me what to say to them, and I would carry on minute long conversations in Karamojong without ever knowing what I was saying. I trusted the father to lead me in the right direction and soon I found myself being invited to join in on a game that resembled mancala with rocks in the dirt. I was led all around this village and the entire time these three men, one of their friends had joined the caravan, would pop their head in every house and say mzungu! We were being followed by about 30 children. The kids smile and wave, but when you come closer to shake their hand or teach them about high fives, they scream and run away giggling. As we continued to walk, I learned more and more of the local language. As a side note: I am terrible at languages. My guide would spell out how the Karamojong word sounded using the English alphabet, and I was making friends left and right. People assume that if you can say Hi, how are you?, in their native language that you will then understand the next minute of gibberish they fling at you. However, this is not the case. I have no clue what was being said to me or what I was saying back to them but I had my friend in my ear telling me exactly what to say and how to pronounce it. After talking to everyone in a compound, we headed out to see other parts of the village. As I was leaving, a child yelled mzungu! and one of the men I had been talking to said (my guide told me this) Hes not a mugunzu, hes a Karamajon! When my guide told me what the man said, I felt like I was in my own version of Avatar! (or Pocahontas, Dances with Wolves or Fern Gully) I had been accepted into the local tribe. As my imagination ran wild I was just sure that in no time I was going to be singing along with the Karamojong people, making my own man-stool (all the men sit on uncomfortable wooden stools) and catching lions with my bare hands. Unfortunately, no lions were immediately present to capture, so I had to just go on with my tour. As we walked I met an old man, thin as the branches on a dying tree, sitting on the side of the road. My guide told me that this man was very sick, and has been sick for years. However, as we approached him he stuck is cane into the ground, pulled himself up of off his stool and walked over to us.

While the children of Uganda were beautiful and really make you want to make a difference, I hold a special place in my heart for the elderly. They have seen so much hardship, especially in this region of Uganda, and live in some of the worst conditions on the planet. But the elderly were far and above the friendliest and kindest age group in Uganda. This man greeted me with a hug and he spoke a mile a minute. I spoke back, not knowing what I was saying of course, and he led me into his compound. A compound is like your yard, and the village is the neighborhood. In his compound there were three huts, two larger huts with tin roofs and one very small hut with a reed roof. My guides told me that they also lived here and showed me their home. Their one room house was the largest I had seen in the village, and if the roof and wall to their other room hadnt collapsed the week before, I would have considered it a mansion. After a very excited tour of their home, they led me to the very small hut in the corner. Wisps of smoke were escaping through the cracks in the grass roof, which stood only about 3 feet off the ground. Pieces of metal were scattered across the roof, as to cover up any holes. My guides told me that a man named Peter lived here with his wife, and that Peter was blind. They told me that they allow them to live in their compound because they are very old and have nowhere else to go. The guide yelled into the hut and a very small, frail woman climbed out of the small door. She looked at me confused, and then to my friends. They said something to her and her face lit up, she grabbed my hand and yelled into the hut. I have no idea what this man told her, but I was so grateful to have him next to me. A moment after she called into the hut, a thin long cane shot out of the doorway, followed by an old hand and a small man wearing a straw hat. Peter climbed out of his home, and wandered toward me. I greeted him, using the few words of Karamojong I knew, and he stopped in his tracks. He turned and faced me, his mouth agape. He then broke into laughter and hobbled over to me and reached out. I grabbed his hand and he lifted both of his arms into the air, one clutching to his cane and one to my hand. He took my hands and put it on his forehead, I followed his lead. The only thing separating our faces was our fists against our foreheads. He was singing and laughing, and I was on the verge of tears as I watched this man celebrate and sing for me. Peters inner joy poured though his white eyes and his smile was everlasting. He held my hand and we danced, as his wife clapped and as my friends looked on and sang. Peter was singing loudly and I was silent. I danced and smiled, but couldnt make a sound. Peter told me that he was a beggar, and sang me his song. I had no money on me at the time but told him that I hoped to find him the next day. As we left Peters home I was no longer interested in soccer. We wandered on and I continued my marathon of home visits. I met a man with 6 children. His wife died the week before and his hut washed away only three days prior. He had built a small shack using metal scraps, plastic shards and twine. I met an old woman who slept in a small hut; her husband died years ago and her only company was the four pigs who slept in her home. As I entered they squealed and scurried out. Her neighbors provide for her, because she is simply too weak. A woman drug me along the street for a good 5 minutes speaking so quickly I wouldnt have been able to understand her if she was speaking perfect English. My guides told me that she was repeating: You are coming with me; you have seen everyones houses, but not mine. You must see mine. You are coming with me. She led me to an entirely different area of the village and I visited every home in the compound.

Smells of burning charcoal suffocated me in every home I visited, water leaked on to my back as I crawled into each home. Every time I crawled out of a hut, I was met by 5 more families who wanted me to come see their family. My tour guides or friends, they were my friends at this point, told me I was safe, Do not worry, we will keep you safe. Up until they said that, I had yet to even question my safety. In the last 20 years some of the worst violence and human rights violations were taking place in this very region of the country, yet the happiness and beauty of the Ugandan people put me at ease. I felt more scared riding the tube in London. As I walked farther and farther, the sun began to set. I told my guides that I had to be back before sunset and we began to turn around. On the way I danced with a group of children, showed a dad how to use an ab roller, sat with a family as they cooked on their fire and was offered snuff about 4 separate times (no thanks) We took a different route home and went past a large foundation of a home, to be completed. My guides told me that this was for the district CAO, pronounced cow but stands for Chief Administrative Officerthe mayor. My friends told me that this man will live only yards away from the poverty I just witnessed in a 7 room home, but has never spoken to one of his future neighbors. That he will close his eyes to the poverty and drive around in his new SUV. As we walked on, we came to a dry river bed. I challenged my friends to jump across the river and we ran back, and sprinted towards the gap. I jumped first and barely made it, the men laughed and all tried to leap across the dry, dirt canyon. After we cleared, they asked me if I could do any tricks. They showed me a cartwheel, and I copied. They asked me if I could do anything else, and of course I had to say HELL YEA, WANA SEE A BACK FLIP? They all smiled and I gave them my iPod and keys to hold, the only things I had on me (smart move right?). I ran about 30 yards away and imitated a gymnast preparing for his vault. I sprinted toward the men, watching their faces fill with excitement, I dove toward the ground, spun around, planted my feet and flew into the air. Usually when I try to flip I get around pretty well and land on my feet, however the mixture of happiness, sadness and pure love for these people caused me to put a lot more power behind my push. As I tried to land, my momentum took me over and I rolled onto my back. I laid on my back laughing, and I heard my friends cracking up. They walked over and extended their hand, not to pull me up, but for a high five. I gave them each a high five and popped up. The youngest gave me my iPod and keys and continued to walk. I asked them their ages and I learned that the youngest was 24, with 4 children. His father was 38 with 6 children and the friend was 25 and had two ladies. They laughed and said, he was the bachelor of the village. As we approached the gates of the hotel the men stuck out their hand and I shook each one. I cannot put into words what I was feeling then and how I feel now, trying to recall it. I was overwhelmed with the people I had just met, the homes I had visited, the things I had learned. These three men saw a white boy sitting on a broken well, and welcomed me into their village and their homes. They taught me their native language, and told me I was one of them, that I was welcome in the village. They introduced me to their families, friends and neighbors. They talked to me about their goals and hopes. The father told me how he

had only wanted to educate his children, to teach them English so that they would have a future. These men were the brightest and kindest people I had met the entire trip. I couldnt let them go with just a handshake. In a spur-of-the-moment decision, I told them to stay there and ran into the hotel. I ran past the rest of the group smiling. Cole, where the hell have you been? Cant! One second, Ill be right back, I have a story! I ran into the hotel and flew into my room. I reached into my wallet and grabbed three 20,000 UGX. Throughout my three weeks in Uganda I had been badgered and bothered for money almost every day, and every time I politely told them sorry, that I couldnt give it. However, these men never asked once. They showed me nothing but kindness and invited me into their homes. They were leaders of the village and they were educating their families and friends. I wanted to thank them and this was the only way I knew how. I ran back out of the hotel to where they were standing. Before I gave them the money, I couldnt think of what to say. I wanted to thank them, but thank you isnt enough. I told them that I was giving them a gift because of their hospitality, their joy and their determination to help their people. I gave each of them a 20,000 bill and all three of them gave me a tight hug. I wish I could say I gave an extra 20,000 for the men to give to Peter, but I regret that I forgot. They asked me to return, to come back and I had to tell them I was leaving in the morning. Before I left and went back into the hotel the father asked me one last thing, Please return, he said. Come with your friends, come with cameras. We do not want money, we want help and you can tell and show people that we need help. I told him I would and I gave him one last hug. I watched as they walked back to their village together and I turned to go back into the hotel. Sitting here right now, I am having emotional flashbacks to what I felt at that moment, and I am lost. I have no clue how to explain what I was feeling. I was so happy, I was so grateful, I was sad, I was hopeful and I was blessed. As I walked into the dining area and met the rest of the group at the table, I couldnt eat. I ordered a coke and slowly drank it. I tried to explain to them what I have tried to explain here, but I can never really recreate that experience. I left Uganda on an amazing note. As the filmmaker I was used to having my camera on me at all time. Ironically, the most powerful and moving experience I had in Uganda went totally undocumented. No pictures, no videos, only my memories and this journal entry will remind me what I experienced that night. I have always been the type of person who wants to travel the world, to jump out of planes, to really experience life. But if you are looking for a true life changing experience: look for an old broken well down a dirt road in Moroto, and open your heart and mind to the people of the Karamoja. They will do the same to you.