April 20, 2012 by Jeff.

As I write this column I can hear kids splashing in the pool below. The scene is somewhat incongruous to what I saw and heard last night.

Yesterday, bush tired and weary from a long bus ride, I crashed into my hotel room. Out of my window I could see a lone guy at the pool playing his bass guitar. He was in the zone, riffing off the music playing in his headphones. I changed into my board shorts and made my way down to the pool to vibe. I sat in a plastic chair and watched a fat man swim laps, while I sipped a cold Club. That afternoon, the only words this 20-year-old musician exchanged with me were a quick “What’s up?” as he passed. He was busy calling friends to join him at the pool.

Hours later, I was relaxing in my third floor room when, all of a sudden, screams of terror came up through my open window from below. It took me a minute or two to realize that no one was responding to their call to pull their friend out of the pool. He was lying at the bottom. I could see it all from my window. A small, dark spot in the water as his friends frantically yelled from the side of the pool. By the time I scampered down the stairs, another man had jumped in but I could hear him saying that the man, this dark shadow, was too heavy to lift out. Now I was in the water. I dove and found myself clutching to his head and pulling him to the surface. He was limp. With one arm around his chest, I used the other to swim toward the side of the pool. His friends helped to pull him out and started CPR. He vomited. Then blood ran from his nose. Yet he failed to take a breath.

Finally someone from the hotel staff showed up and I directed her to find a doctor. Before one came, others helped to carry him out to the road to find a car. I wandered away, not knowing what remained appropriate to do as a foreign resident and stranger. Minutes later as the adrenaline drained I began to freak out in my hotel room; I stripped off all my clothes; pulled on something dry; and called my mother.

Later I learned that he and his friends made it into a car to the hospital but he never regained consciousness.

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February 13, 2012 by Jeff.

I wash my own clothes, clean my own house, and tend my own gardens. Yet, twice a week I make my way past the screaming kids at the adjoining primary school to reach a barber shop in town. It’s a cheap luxury. A shave costs about 22 cents and gives me ten minutes where I can close my eyes and tune out the world.

My current barber, Davis is an affable guy. Yet, he is so short that I have to slouch down so that my ass reaches the edge of the chair and the apron barely makes it to just above my knees. Lying back like this I also tend to fall asleep. Somehow this works. Davis, a former primary school teacher who switched professions for a more steady income, now makes about two dollars a day at the shop (when there is electricity), while his wife continues to receive a salary at a local primary school to contribute to the income necessary to raise their children. I look forward to our short chats and the loud music that drowns out the rest of the conversation and insults.

Last Thursday, Davis left his shop in the evening to visit his wife at the school where she lives with their children. Later, when he returned to his shop, he found his padlock broken and all of his tools and equipment either missing or damaged. The same night, thieves stole a bunch of bananas from a shop across the street. The crimes were brash and cruel. While the perpetrators grabbed little that they can trade for cash, it will take weeks, if not months, for the businesses to recover. Davis’ shop remains shuttered.

While I can and do easily float between the different stratas of Ugandan society, I am today reminded of those that struggle to afford a simple plate of posho and beans, and how easily one can slip from everyday simple poverty into that of desperate poverty.

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January 22, 2012 by Jeff.

church in square:

the arch:

la defense (a planned business community and shopping center, conceived in the 60s and built over the past four decades):

notre dame de pentecôte (wholly different than the one I visited earlier in the day):

inside the other notre dame:

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January 22, 2012 by Jeff.

Beyond the neon red lights and the sweet smoke wafting from the coffee shops, I found a beautiful small city with magical row houses set upon canals and a people as open and friendly as one might hope. The last city on my itinerary, I was a bit tired but found my first bit of hope in a fellow traveler. Within minutes of checking in, I began talking to an Aussie who was also travelling through Europe for his first time. After ordering a bit of dinner from the hostel’s bar, we journeyed out across the city. The red light district was jarring. I’m accustomed to women soliciting on the street or on craigslist; yet, here prostitutes, perch in storefront windows as if some sort of candy. More disturbing was just how many storefronts had their lights on but the curtains drawn. Despite the tapping on the glass, we made our way across town to a bar where we sat, talked, amd watched people as the effects of the brownie I ate earlier began to kick in. Walking back we noticed swans swimming in the canals. This is my perspective:

My second night in Amsterdam I stopped at Paridiso to catch Cymbals Eat Guitars play a show. The venue wasn’t super-crowded and the fans seemed eager to listen to the music. Before and after, I stopped at a local bar and chatted with a bartender about life in Uganda vs. Amsterdam. A great conversation and one of the highlights of my trip. The Van Gogh museum was also pretty hip.

The openness and acceptance of the Dutch people is astounding. At times, they seemingly just look the other way, as with the sex tourists, while, as with me, sometimes they just greet with open arms. fantastic. Oh, and all the bikers and bike lanes just rock.

A church crowded between houses:

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January 21, 2012 by Jeff.

On Boxing day I fled the warmth of Uganda for the frigid civilization of Europe. In three weeks I traveled to London, Manchester, Paris, Brussels, and Amsterdam. I stayed with a sister and a friend and met a few new ones at hostels along the way. Most of my time was spent eating copious amounts of food and darting in and out of museums. One can find the most pretentious in Paris and the best curated in Amsterdam, although I feel that the Tate Modern does indeed deserve an honorable mention. None compare to the collection of Pop Art and Impressionism at MOMA/NYC. I found myself drawn to the street art in Paris and Amsterdam, however. It shows how a city landscape can evolve. Sometimes the beautiful overtakes the ugly and just as often that beauty is marred.

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